All Grace Abounds
by Cheryl W
Summary: Sometimes you don’t find faith, it finds you. Post HOTH. Dean Centric. No Slash.
1. Chapter 1

All Grace Abounds

By: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, Dean or Sam, nor am I making any profit from this story.

Summary: Sometimes you don't find faith, it finds you. (Post HOTH. Dean Centric. No Slash.)

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Gripping the steering wheel tightly, Dean struggled to keep the heavy frame of the Impala on the snow covered country road, glad his brother wasn't in the passenger seat wearing his 'I told you so' glare. Having almost sideswiped a parked car, narrowly missed taking out two mailboxes and forced to manhandle the Impala as it slid from one side of the road to the other, Dean could admit, only to himself of course, that he had picked a poor time to go for a joyride.

'_Joy?! Yeah, right, cause that's what I'm out here for?_' he internally groused, knowing that anger, frustration, had led him to seek sanctuary in the Impala, certainly not joy. And the kicker was, he didn't know what he was angry about, what led him to get so frustrated at Sam for leading them to this town for what had turned out to be some snipe hunt. It wasn't the first snipe hunt they had gone on, not as a pair and not even as a family. False leads came with the territory.

'_Maybe I'm sick of the territory_,' came the traitorous thought, making Dean grip the wheel with more strength. But he denied it a moment later. Sure, the job was wearing thin, but there was more to his attitude this time around. Uncertainty, it kept his sleep at bay, made hunger an absentee friend and peace a fable, heard about but so long felt it seemed a tall tale.

The black and white that had colored his world was askew, smearing with greys and reds and blues and freakin' stripes! Hunting had always been so down the line, so here or there, so right and wrong and now it wasn't, not after his encounter with pacifist vampires and maybe never again now that Sam was topping some of the other hunters' hit lists. Dean Winchester was a man who lived and reacted on proof, who accepted that what he _saw_ was real, that believing was seeing. Now everything was murky, what with Sam believing in angels and admitting to praying and then there was that kid skewered with that pole, rightfully getting what he deserved. Where did any of this leave Dean?! Grappling in the dark, awash in the gales of four winds, angry, frustrated, striking out at Sam, taking a "joyride" on slippery roads.

"Crap," Dean growled as the Impala's four tires lost their dubious traction and sent the 1967 vehicle sliding toward a telephone pole.

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Sam shivered against the frigid air but couldn't force himself to take the two steps back into the motel room, to tear his eyes from the snow covered road that ran by the motel. He was acting like a scared kid, he knew that, a kid waiting for his big brother's return. Dean was the best driver Sam knew, evading a parade of cops was child's play for his brother, dislodging a zombie from the car, challenging but a piece of cake, controlling the car under the worst road and weather conditions, frustrating but doable…most of the time.

"But not all the time, Dean!" Sam lowly growled, anger mixing with his fear, his words stolen by the wind and punctuated with a white mist. '_Dean didn't **need** to be out in this, shouldn't be out in this! _ _Not driving that tank of a car or wearing that stupid leather coat that's more about show than shelter.'_ It had happened so unexpectedly, so fast, one minute they were on the same side, griping about the false lead this "ghost" tale had been and then they were yelling at one another, making accusations, slinging insults. And then Dean had snatched his coat from the bed, jammed his arms into the sleeves and stalked for the door.

Sam winced as he remembered his parting words to Dean, "Dean, don't be stupid! It's freezing out there and the roads are dangerous!" Dean had thrown him a glare as he slammed the door, rattling the pictures on the walls.

That had been an hour ago, a freakin' long, hard hour ago. Squinting as intently as he could against the falling snow, Sam couldn't make out the sight of the Impala plowing its way down the road, back to him. The part of Sam that was accustomed to danger, danger to himself and to Dean, the part of himself that was all hunter, chastised him for his concern. But the other part of Sam, the part that lead him ninety percent of the time, the part that was all Dean's brother, offered up a silent prayer, "God, keep Dean safe. Bring him back to me safe and sound. Cause…well, I love him…even when he's being a big old stupid, bullheaded jerk."

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With a small groan of pain, Dean raised his aching head from the steering wheel, blinking to get his vision to snap back into focus. It took a moment for the view through the windshield to morph from a white out to a picture of individual snow flakes, a country road to his left, a field to his right and a telephone pole right in front of him. "Just great," he grunted, shoving the car into reverse, he gave the engine some gas, only to be greeted with a lack of motion.

Hearing the tires spinning in the snow, feeling the car rumble under him but not move, Dean turned off the engine in defeat. 'I'm freakin' stuck in the snow!" Slamming his hand against the steering wheel, Dean seethed even as his eyes sought out a sign of civilization in the vicinity only to be met with a blanket of white snow over fields on every side as far as he could see.

"Stupid, stinking Mayberry," he cursed, yanking his cell phone from his coat pocket, planning on calling information to track down a local tow truck operator. No way was he calling Sam, admitting what had happened, giving his brother the greatest opening for a lecture on how right his little brother was, and how foolish his older brother was. No, Sam wasn't going to hear any of this from him, ever.

The flash of "no service" on his phone shouldn't have come as a surprise, considering the way things were going for him lately. "Course, no service. Why should anything be easy!" he railed at the phone, at fate, at life, tossing the phone angrily onto the passenger side of the seat. "Fine, I'll do this the old fashion way."

Climbing from the car, Dean was unprepared for the lightheadedness that hit him, making him grab clumsily for the door to steady him. Raising a hand to his head, he grimaced both at the pain and the wetness that coated his fingers. Frustrated, he used the back of his hand to smear away the blood he knew was seeping from the wound and threatening to run down his face, probably get into his eye.

He didn't look at his hand as he dropped it to his side, didn't need to see the blood to know it was there. Blood he knew about, pain he knew about, being in piss poor situations…he was king at. Stepping clear of the car, he slammed the door with force and trudged forward. His feet kicking and sliding in the snow that was above his ankles, he made it to the front of his car, saw the point of impact and felt some measure of relief. The bumper had taken the brunt of the abuse, was dented a little but the hood wasn't damaged.

As his hair turned white with snow, Dean frowned as he saw the front right tire was buried in a bank of snow and the two left side tires were sitting prettily on sheets of ice. "It just keeps getting better and better," Dean grumbled, scanning the area from his new vantage point, causing him to re-categorize the land to his right as a wooded area, leaving what lay beyond a mystery and his own hope.

Zipping up his leather jacket and stuffing his hands in his pockets, Dean gave one more hopeful look down the road. Seeing no rescue in sight, he kicked the telephone pole before he stepped off of the road and headed into the small woods.

The going was sucky, by all accounts. The drifts were coming up to his thighs, the tread under his boots was icy, and the snow was falling harder, making visibility about nil. He had not been this cold since the time he got pushed off that cliff by that werewolf in Wyoming when he was ten and it had taken his father half a day to find him. Shivering harder at the memories, Dean was about to break into humming 'light my fire' when he heard the music.

Stumbling to a halt, Dean swept his gaze around the trees that surrounded him, trying to distinguish a structure through the white wall of winter, seeking a source for the music he heard. Squinting, his teeth chattering and snowflakes clinging to his eyelashes, Dean was forced to let his ears lead him. Abandoning his direct route through the woods, Dean headed to his right, following the singing that echoed through the stillness of his world. With a jolt, Dean knew the song he heard was a hymn, knew it, not from his time in a church but from a time so long ago, a time when he was just a small boy who still got tucked into bed by his mother.

Faltering to a stop, Dean breathed hard, expelling white puffs into the air. His gut instincts were eerily quiet, leaving him to make his own conclusions about what was making the hair on the back of his neck stand up. '_Don't be so paranoid! There's probably a church just through the woods where some choir is practicing or a house where someone's playing the radio.' _But Dean couldn't move forward, didn't trust the way any longer, had almost decided to retrace his steps when he heard it, a young boy's scared voice, calling out for help.

Dean took off at a run, his uncertainty forgotten, his determination giving him the ability to make his way through the thigh deep snow.

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Twelve year old Kyle Stap was scared, more scared than he had ever been before. All he had wanted to do was go to Howard's field and take some pictures while it was covered in snow. He had planned to do it quickly so he wouldn't miss his mother's phone call from work. She'd never know he had decided to turn the school snow day into his own photography adventure where Howard's field was stop number five.

He wasn't a fool, he had known it was going to be cold so he had pulled on his ski outfit, complete with scarf and hat. He had even put on the gloves though they made snapping pictures a real pain. And he knew the way to each of his photograph locations, had sought them out more than a dozen times in the past year. But never in snow, well not this much snow.

When he stepped from the road into the nearly waist high snow, he hesitated, contemplated turning around, chickening out. But the taunts of some of the boys at his school rang through his head, boys that didn't respect him for not returning a punch for a punch. He had heard the teacher tell the other boys that "fighting is just not in Kyle's nature. That doesn't make him scared to fight…" but he walked away after that, not wanting to hear her lame excuse and too ashamed to set her straight.

It had nothing to do with "his nature" and all to do with his beliefs. He was a Christian and he knew that it wasn't right to return evil for evil, even when you wanted to, really badly. But it didn't lessen his humiliation, doing the right thing, turning the other cheek. So it was with pride that he ventured stubbornly forward, stepping into the snow covered woods, made his way toward Howard's field.

The going was slow, hard and cold but he was making progress, would soon see the field in all its pristine whiteness. Without warning his right foot slipped out from under him, sending him falling face first into the snow. Awkward in his bundle of clothing, it took him a few moments to shove aside the fluffy snow and stand again, his face now coated in snow, his scarf frozenly resting on his chin. Anger spiked through him, "Stupid dumb snow!" Flinging the snow in his hands to the side, he shoved his way forward, taking no notice to his path.

A moment later he screamed in pain as his leg was pierced, sending him crashing to the snow covered ground, writhing in agony. He didn't need to clear the snow free of his leg to know what had happened, what was threatening to rip his leg apart. A steel trap used for catching small game. His father had joined him on his first trek to Howard's field, had carefully pointed out the traps and warned him that he had to always be conscious of his surroundings. A rule he hadn't thought of today, not when his sights had been on taking that picture, proving that he was no chicken, that he was old enough to do what he wanted with his day.

He knew he should bend down and try and open the trap but the pain kept him immobile, groaning, hands gripping the snow, unmindful of the cold stealing its way through his clothing. All he could feel was pain and fear. No one knew where he was! He hadn't even left a note for his parents because he had planned to be back home long before they got home, had meant to keep his little excursion a secret, well, until he showed them the award winning pictures his little trip earned him.

No one was going to save him! And he knew with brutal clarity that he was incapable of saving himself. Instantly he pleaded to the One he knew had always stuck by him, even when he was being the biggest fool in the world. '_God, please help me! I'm sorry I skipped out…that I didn't ask permission. That I wanted to hit those jerks at school! Please send someone to help me. I'll be better, obey my parents …well more than I do now. I'll talk about You, to everyone. I won't keep you a secret. Just please, help me, have someone find me.'_

Then he choked out, "Help! Please help me" to God and to whoever God was sending his way.

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If it hadn't been for Kyle's red hat snagging his searching gaze like a signal fire amid the white landscape, Dean would have walked right by the boy lying in the snow. Adrenaline, concern, and dread surged through Dean as he shoved through the higher drifts of snow to reach the too still body. With his breath burning in his chest, his heart pounding hard against his ribs, he drew close to the small body, huddled nearly into a ball. Drawing closer, he could detect that the boy was trembling in his merciless bed of snow.

Crouching beside the shivering boy, Dean felt a measure of relief wash over him as the boy's clear eyes flew up to meet his own green gaze. Adopting his gentlest tone, Dean greeted, "Looks like we both should have stayed inside today. Are you hurt?" he asked, reaching out a tender hand, brushing away the snowflakes from the boy's bangs that peeked out from his hat. To Dean's shock, a smile turned up the boy's nearly blue lips.

"I knew you'd come," his young voice proclaimed, breathless but with unshakeable conviction, "That you'd save me."

At the boy's strange words, Dean felt fear grip him again, worried that delirium had already set in. Cupping the boy's cheek, Dean bent over and tilted his head to meet the boy's green eyes levelly. Lending more authority to his tone, Dean gently questioned again, hoping to jar the boy back from his confusion, "Are you hurt? Did you twist your ankle?"

Kyle shook his head and forced his chattering teeth to form words. "No. I stepped in a trap…I forgot about them and couldn't..couldn't see it because of the snow."

Apprehension brought Dean's brows together in a scowl; internally he cursed careless hunters even as he held back a cringe. Having traipsed about many a woods, he was well aquatinted with traps and he could hazard a knowledgeable guess at the damage they could inflict on a boy's leg. Cursing silently, Dean focused on Kyle, knowing the injured boy needed his help, not his anger.

"I'm going to get you free. Alright?" Dean promised, asking in the same breath for the boy's trust.

"I know you will," Kyle earnestly stated though his teeth chattered and the pain was nearly unbearable.

Unaccustomed to someone other than Sam having such conviction in him, Dean felt the full weight of this boy's life, his hope, his future rest in his hands. Swallowing to clear his suddenly thick throat, Dean calmly explained, "Well the first thing I'm going to do is move the snow away from your foot so I can see the trap. OK?" He waited for the boy's nod before he moved back a pace, knelt fully in the snow and carefully began digging out the boy's legs and feet with his ungloved hands.

Busy steeling himself for what damage he might uncover at the bottom of the snow drift, Dean didn't notice the boy's intent inspection of him. He almost startled as the boy's trembling voice broke the silence echoing across the frozen ground.

"I'm Kyle. What's your name?"

Shooting the boy a smile, he replied, "Dean," before he refocused on the snow which he was struggling to remove from the boy's legs. Certain that shock was stalking Kyle, Dean knew that the best thing he could do to ward off that predator was to keep the boy talking. "Were you heading to a friend's house?"

"No," the one word came out of Kyle's blue lips as a stammer. "I just wanted to take a picture of the snow. I didn't ask permission…didn't even leave a note…This is my own stupid fault…being out here."

Dean spared a moment of his attention to shoot the boy a smirk, "Yeah, I kinda did the same thing."

Kyle's brow wrinkled in confusion, "You didn't ask for permission?"

Snorting, Dean shook his head ruefully, his head down, his eyes on his task. "Kinda. I had a fight with my brother…he told me not to go out in this but…" Dean shot Kyle a cocky smile, "listening isn't my thing, especially to my little brother."

Kyle smiled, liking his guardian angel more for not giving him a lecture.

Having made good progress, Dean knew he was getting close to revealing the boy's trapped leg. He stilled, his mouth going dry as his heart thudded in his chest as he uncovered snow, red with blood. Slowing his actions, Dean traced the boy's leg down until they hit the startling cold of the metal animal trap's jawed arches. When Kyle moaned, Dean looked up at the boy, "You're doing great, Kyle. Better than I did the time I got hurt hunting."

"You step in a trap?" Kyle asked, hopeful almost because misery and stupid fools liked company.

"Ah…no, I tripped and got a piece of wood stuck in my leg," Dean lied outright, knowing that telling the truth about any of his injuries was out of the question. He was here to save the kid, not scar him for life with tales from the dark side. Wincing as shooting pain shot up his nearly frozen fingers, Dean continued to brush the snow from the trap, revealing the merciless anchor it had on Kyle's leg.

Meeting Kyle's eyes, Dean spoke with conviction, "Ok, Kyle. I can see the trap and I'm going to open it up and get your leg out. But, listen…" his voice turned deep with emotion, "I…it's gonna hurt, kiddo. I wish it wasn't going to but it is," Dean fought down the vivid memories that flashed in his mind of having to say the same thing to an entirely too young Sam.

"It's alright, Dean," Kyle bravely replied, unknowingly making the same reply Sam always had, causing Dean's eyes nearly to water. "You came when I needed you to. I know you're gonna get me out of here. "

"Yeah, yeah I am. But you go ahead and yell if you have to, no one's gonna hear you out here," Dean allowed, offering the boy a luxury John Winchester had never given him, the acceptance that he was just a boy, that he was in pain, that courage wasn't just shown by pretending that he was stronger than the pain.

But Kyle's next words told Dean that someone had already began to teach the same lesson to this boy as John Winchester had taught his eldest son. "You'll hear me," Kyle's voice resonated that hurt little boy tone that had the power to rip Dean's heart out.

Dean's jaw clenched for a moment, hating to see this boy try to wear the mantle he himself had been forced to bear. Vividly he remembered how hard and tenaciously he had struggled to not let Sam be crushed under the too heavy weight. With his voice low with emotion, Dean said gently, "Not if I yell at the same time as you do, right?" A surprised but grateful look fell upon the boy's features and he nodded his head.

Wanting to act fast once Kyle was freed of the trap, Dean unzipped his leather coat, stripped it off and tried to make his uncooperative fingers loosen the buttons on his outer shirt. Frustrated at the clumsy motions of his digits, Dean ripped the shirt open, sending buttons flying. Removing the shirt he laid it around his neck before putting his jacket back on and rezipping it, knowing that he couldn't risk faltering under the cold if he wanted to help Kyle. Facing Kyle, he felt foolish needing help with his rescue plan but he would not let his pride hurt this kid.

"Kyle, you have to help me out here 'cause I'm not from around here. Which way is the church?"

Confusion marred the boy's cold features, "What church?"

"Ok, which way is the house?" Dean tried, knowing that the house couldn't have been that far, not when the music had been so clear.

"It's about two miles down the road," Kyle answered, lifting his hand, pointing behind Dean.

"No, I mean the one where the music was coming from," Dean clarified patiently.

"What music?" Kyle asked, watching Dean closely.

Stilling, Dean, for the first time since finding the boy, listened to the world around him. A world that was void of music, unless you were Frosty the Snowman and got off on the howling wind whistling through the frozen trees. Pushing the mystery aside, Dean concluded, "Well, we'll head back to my car then. You can sit inside with the heater running while I track down someone who can take us to the hospital."

Focusing back on the trap, Dean looked up to the boy and his heart clenched as he saw the boy's fear mixing with his trust in him, a total stranger. "Kyle, on the count of three we're both going to yell for all we're worth, alright?"

Kyle nodded his head, his fear tightening his throat too much to believe his voice wouldn't crack if he spoke. Dean nodded too, his feelings similar on the talking issue now that it was time to act, to inflict pain to save the kid.

"One," Dean said, pressing the trap trigger down with his knee, releasing the tension on the steel jaws. "Two," he counted as he wrapped his hands around the jaws beside Kyle's speared leg, unmindful of the spikes already promising to dig into the flesh of his palms. "Three," he growled as he tightly gripped the jaws and pried them away from the boy's flesh, yelling into the wind, his voice joining with the brave boy's.

Having levered the spikes free of the boy's leg, Dean slid the trap away, tossing it aside angrily. Sweeping the dry shirt from around his neck, he hurriedly wrapped it around Kyle's bleeding leg. As he tied it off, it elicited another yelp of pain from Kyle, the sound hurting Dean more than his own bleeding palms ever could.

Tenderly laying his hand on the boy's cheek, Dean commended, "You did just great, kiddo. Now we're getting out of this crummy winter wonderland."

Kyle nodded but when Dean slipped his arms under his back and legs and picked him up, a groan of pain broke from him. Curling into his guardian angel's chest, he mumbled, "Hurts.."

Tightening his hold on the precious burden in his arms, Dean forged his way back toward the Impala, "Yeah, I know it does," his voice nearly cracking even as his eyes stung from more than the ice cold wind that assailed him. "But at the hospital they'll make that pain go away," he promised, looking down but only able to see the boy's red hat as the boy tucked his head down, against Dean's chest.

A gloved hand wrapped itself in Dean's leather coat and a muffled small voice asked, "Why are you mad at your brother?"

Dean grimaced, '_Great, I'm getting a therapy session from a twelve year old traumatized kid_,' but it wasn't within him to deny the hurt boy an answer. "I don't know. He just…wants too much from me. Sometimes I think that he doesn't even know me."

"I feel that way about my dad," Kyle quietly replied, his hand clenching tighter to Dean. "And I think…maybe, if he did know me…he wouldn't…" the boy broke off.

Nearly slipping on the ice under the snow, Dean regained his balance, squinted into the white expansion and caught sight of the very welcome sight of the Impala. Beginning forward again, Dean gently prodded, "He wouldn't what?"

A trembling sigh escaped the boy and Dean wasn't sure if the cause was the cold or the boy's emotions this time. "Like me, be proud of me," came the tremulous words.

The boy's words were like a spear of ice through Dean's heart. If anyone knew that feeling, he did, it was the way he always felt with his father, with Sam. It was the reason he had obeyed his father's orders, striving to 'earn' his father's love, why he sometimes barricaded himself away from Sam, hiding the part of himself he wasn't sure that his brother would like, could forgive. If this was a Hallmark movie, Dean knew he would sugar coat things for the kid, but life was no feel good movie, it was hard and uncertain and painful. "I know that fear, Kyle." '_I'm king of that feeling_.' Finding he was unwilling to let the boy take the painful path which he had chosen to travel in life, Dean revealed, "Because of that fear I've shut out people who care about me. It's a lonely way to live. I wish….well, I wish I had taken a chance, you know, let someone really know me."

"But your brother…he wants to know you, right? The real you. And you kinda want him to know the real you, don't you? So you can still take that chance."

"You're too smart for your age kid. How about we make a deal?" Dean wagered, causing the boy's head to come up, his eyes meeting Dean's. "I'll take a chance if you do?"

"Deal," the boy smiled.

Finally Dean gained the Impala's side, his breath burning in his chest, his fingers pricking with pain and his body nearly frozen from head to toe. It took some tricky maneuvering but he managed to get the rear door open and settle Kyle unto the back seat without overly jostling the twelve year old's injured leg. Pulling a blanket from the floor, Dean tucked it around Kyle, patted the boy's chest and reassured, "I'm going to start the car and get the heater cranked on," not pulling back until he received the boy's nod of acceptance.

Closing the back door, Dean made his way to the driver's side of the Impala, having to catch himself on the car's frame as his feet threatened to go out from under him on the ice that gave him no purchase. Climbing into the car and shutting the door, Dean immediately brought the classic car's engine to life and turned the heater to its highest setting. With a silent plea, he picked up his phone from the passenger side but the doomed words of "No service" still appeared on the screen.

Surprisingly, not one to give up on the odds of a turn of good luck, Dean put the car into reverse, offered up a silent '_Please, God, if you're real, if you're listening, help me save this kid, cause he doesn't deserve to die. Just please, do it for him, not for me.'_ Then he tentatively hit the gas pedal. The Chevy lurked backward as if it were on the driest stretch of blacktop.

For a moment, Dean sat stunned as the Impala reversed away from the telephone pole and came to a stop back on the road. There were a thousand logical explanations for the car's now responsive motion…but he couldn't field them now, not them or the confusion that dogged his beliefs these days. '_Don't look a gift horse in the mouth_,' he groused to himself as he put the car into drive and headed down the road, intent on getting Kyle to the hospital, quickly and safely.

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TBC

Thank you for reading!

Have a great day!  
Cheryl W.

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	2. Chapter 2

All Grace Abounds

By: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, Dean or Sam, nor am I making any profit from this story.

Author's note: Apologies for the shortness of this chapter! I felt guilty for not meeting my one week update standards so I thought a little offering was better than no offering at all. Just so you know, I had this delusion that this would be a small two chapter story. As you can see, it, however, has morphed into this multi-chapter long winded thing. (Surprise, surprise, right?) I guess I should know by now that I never shut up when I should. Hope the story continues to amuse you.

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Chapter 2

Having reluctantly exchanged his outside vigil for an inside one, Sam restlessly paced the interior of the motel room, his cell phone tightly gripped in the hand he tapped against his thigh without rhythm. He hadn't intended to call Dean, had been resigned to give his brother whatever space he needed even as the timer on Dean's absence clicked past an hour and a half. Dean was a big boy, could take care of himself, _wanted_ to take care of himself. And that resolve had been all good and fine, until the sirens echoed through the room, until Sam flung open the door and watched, his heart in his mouth, as an ambulance passed the motel, heading the same direction Dean had.

Sam was dialing his brother's cell phone number before the ambulance was out of his sight, praying that the ambulance's mission had nothing to do with Dean. The sound of his brother's voice in his ear should have reassured him, lowered his heart rate ….except the voice wasn't 'live'. "This is Dean, leave a message." The voice mail message offered up a poor substitute for the real thing, the recorded voice painfully lacking that familiar inflection of emotions it always had when Dean talked to his brother, an inflection Dean reserved for only the ones he loved. To be greeted by this charade of Dean's voice, of the voice he knew so well, the voice that always saved him, even when his world was imploding around him, only increased the grip of worry in Sam's gut.

That apprehension only intensified as, call after call, Sam was greeted by that sham of his brother's voice. And each time the message played, Sam's hope that the next time, Dean, the real Dean, would answer, would ease the anxiety thrumming through his little brother, faded.

'_He has to be OK. I mean this is Dean Winchester we're talking about here, the guy who's too stubborn to die, too bullheaded to admit that he's not invincible…..who's entirely too protective of me to leave me alone.'_ Mutinously, another thought came on the coattails of that conviction. '_And he is only human, only flesh and blood, vulnerable to the whims of his fate just like the rest of us.'_

Fate. It was a word he had been bandying about lately, like a curse word, like an albatross, like a condemnation. His fate, Dean's fate, the uncertainty of both had begun wielding a stranglehold on him when his defenses were down, in the middle of the night, now with Dean inexplicably out of touch.

Suddenly, anger surged through Sam, causing conviction to override fear, giving him the fortitude to rail against fate, his and Dean's. Pulling his coat free from the back of the room's sole chair, he shrugged into it, headed for the door, determined to find his brother, on foot if necessary. He startled as the phone he still held in a death grip came to life. Without bothering to look at the caller ID, Sam breathlessly answered, "Dean?" Sam slumped against the wall in nearly knee buckling relief as Dean's voice came over the phone lines, blessedly interwoven with that beloved inflection.

"Yeah, look…" Dean started.

Pushing off of the wall to stand rigidly in the room, Sam cut off the voice he had desperately wanted to hear for over an hour. "Where have you been, Dean?!" his anger now whitewashing his concern. But before his brother could make a reply, Sam heard a filtered female voice announce in the background, "Paging Dr. Hanson to OR 3. Dr. Hanson to OR 3." Suddenly justified fear swept over Sam, trapping his breath in his lungs for a second before he exhaled in a rush of words, "You're hurt?! How badly? Which hospital are you at?"

"Chill, Sam. I'm not hurt," Dean denied gruffly, feigning annoyance at his brother's worry even as Sam's concern sent warmth through his still too cold body, from his heart outward. Stepping forward, Dean leaned against the wall beside the phone, his eyes taking in the emergency room's waiting area, impassively flickering over the injured and the ill that occupied the chairs, some alone and others accompanied by concerned friends or family members. '_I hate hospitals_,' he venomously thought, swallowing hard and dropping his eyes to the floor so he wouldn't have to play spectator to the pain of these strangers.

At Dean's reassurances, Sam drew a steadying breath into his starving lungs, but the tension didn't fade altogether. He trusted Dean…with everything but his own health. "You're at a hospital," he countered evenly, struggling to keep any accusations from creeping into his words.

Running a cold hand over his forehead, Dean winced as his fingers made contact with the cut on his temple. Dropping his hand, he began, "It's this kid.." his mind brutally conjuring up the sight of Kyle lying in the snow, of the blood seeping from the boy's leg, reminding him too much of a young Sam, wounded, cold, lost, depending on his big brother to save him, to always save him.

Whatever comfort Sam had latched onto by Dean's gruff denial was now decimated by the raw emotions laced in Dean's three words, by the silence that fell before Dean continued.

Corralling his emotions back under control, Dean finished his explanation, "He got caught in an animal trap."

Uncertain what a boy getting caught in a trap had to do with his brother, Sam wanted only to focus on what concerned him the most: Dean. Instinctively, Sam knew that whatever had happened to this boy, whatever had occurred to Dean since he had left his side was threatening to breach Dean's emotional barriers. In desperation, Sam struggled to find the right path to Dean, to bridge the gap that this gig, this weather, this phone, this whole crappy lifestyle had wedged between them. Because for all the things Sam Winchester endured stoically, Dean's pain was never one of them.

From too frequent experience, Sam knew that unraveling any of his brother's hurts was always a battle, required some underhanded tactics and stealthy maneuvering through the back door of Dean's defenses. Sam loved his brother enough to play dirty. "Is the kid going to be OK?" he asked, only because he could sense that the boy's fate mattered a great deal to his brother, letting his own questions for Dean's own welfare go unasked, for the time being.

Involuntarily, Dean looked down the hall to the room where Kyle had been taken, remembered being forced to pry the boy's desperate grip from his hand, to abandon the boy to his own fate that lay beyond that door. '_Keep it together, Dean! You don't even **know **the kid! He's not Sammy! He's not your responsibility! His life isn't yours to protect!' _But the boy's first words to him ricocheted through his head, "_I knew you'd come. That you'd save me," _the boy's conviction, his trust had been like a five alarm fire amid the blizzard, searing into Dean's soul.

Now, standing in another hospital, helpless all over again, Dean felt bitterness pierce through the coldness of his being. '_Save him! If I really had the power to save anyone, I would have saved Kyle from even getting his leg mangled by that trap in the first place, Dad would be alive, Sam wouldn't have lost Jessica, would never have known the touch of evil, would be at college, studying to be the best lawyer this country has ever seen.'_

"Dean?" came Sam's trembling voice in his ear, jarring him from the condemnations that threatened to choke him. His little brother's voice sounded too scared, too similar to Kyle's tone as he pleadingly said his name as Dean pulled his hand free. Dean's response to the boy's fear had been automatic, instinctive. Putting his hand on Kyle's forehead, he had leaned close and promised, "Hey, you're going to be alright. Us tough guys always are, you know, 'cause we have a reputation to maintain."

"You'll be here, right? Won't leave?" Kyle had implored, the pain and panic in his eyes gutting Dean, making his reassurance low with emotion. "I'm not going anywhere, kiddo." And then the boy had disappeared into the room, leaving Dean standing there, useless, alone, lost. And his first thought had been, '_Sam. I need to hear Sam's voice._' That need gave him the energy to stalk to the pay phones, to force his stiff fingers to punch in his brother's cell phone number, to press the receiver against his ice cold ear, to hold his breath until the voice his soul craved to hear floated into his ear.

Now that voice was rising in panic, was desperate for a response, "Dean? You there? You alright?! **Dean**!"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm here. Don't get your panties in a knot, Sammy," Dean shot back, striving to gloss over his emotional exposure with gruff jeers. "I'm just gonna hang around here to make sure the kid's alright. If I'm gonna be long, I'll call you," Dean quickly said, hoping Sam didn't notice that he hadn't answered his question, that he was sounding like he himself was caught in a trap, desperate enough to chew off his own leg to get free.

"So, the kid's not hurt badly?" Sam pressed gently, his brother's refusal to answer his initial question cementing his dark suspicions that Dean was teetering on an emotional precipice.

Dean almost sighed. As if he thought Sam, of all people, would drop something just because Dean needed him to. Hating the way his voice betrayed him, Dean made his answer. "I didn't get a good look…he lost pretty much blood…was fighting off shock…" his hand gripping the side of the payphone divider so hard his knuckles were white. "I…I promised him I would hang around…'till…you know…"

"Yeah, right, Ok," Sam stammered, gutted by the fear, the vulnerability in his big brother's tone, wishing he were with Dean right then and in the same breath, relieved to not see the look on his brother's face, the hurt, the helplessness.

"I'll call you later, Sam," Dean rejoined, his voice on firmer ground.

"Sure, Dean. What hospital are you at..you know…just in case…" Sam fumbled, surely spoiling the notion that it was a throw away question, that the answer didn't matter to Sam, that he wasn't about to run for the door and get to the hospital, to his brother's side as quickly as he could.

"Western General, about ten miles south of the motel," Dean offered without hesitation, oblivious to any underlying reasons for Sam's need for the information. "So…see ya later."

"Yeah, OK," Sam agreed a moment before the connection fell silent. Slipping his phone into his pocket, Sam felt shredded apart. How was it possible, amid all the cuts, bruises, stitches, ice packs, Dad's death and Dean's guilt and his own undetermined fate that he had forgotten how much it **killed** him to hear his brother in pain?! How useless, broken he felt, hearing Dean's strong voice falter, listening to his big brother speak words lacking in humor, in laughter, soaked with bitter, undeniable truth.

"Dean," he choked out with love, with anguish, hating that the world had found a way to slip by his protective defenses, to again hurt the one thing, the one person who meant the most to him. Cursing his failings, Sam headed out the door, intent on getting to the hospital anyway he could, to be at Dean's side, to protect his brother from any more harm, to be the type of brother Dean always was for him.

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TBC

Thanks for reading and as always, I value hearing your opinions.

Have a great day!  
Cheryl W.

14


	3. Chapter 3

All Grace Abounds

By: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, Dean or Sam, nor am I making any profit from this story.

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Chapter 3

As his eyes scanned the motel's snow covered parking lot and the road beyond, Sam understood the true plight he would have getting to Dean. The lot didn't contain a single vehicle which he could liberate and the road was pitifully void of opportunities to hitch a ride…with anyone. His long legs taking him to the lobby, Sam entered to find a teenage girl manning the check-in desk.

Fixing on a smile of greeting, Sam asked, "Hey, do you know a local taxi service or .."

The girl's snort interrupted Sam's flow of words. "Taxi?! Around here? You're in the hicks! You'd be hard pressed to find anyone in this town who's _ridden_ in a taxi!"

Trying not to be disheartened, Sam pressed forward, resuming his smile, though its sincerity had diminished. "Alright, well, I need to get to the hospital. My brother…" but he faltered, discovering that he was wholly unprepared to explain, even to this teenage girl, the need that burned through him to be with his big brother. "He…uh…was in a car accident," he stammered out the lie, instantly jeering himself internally. '_Yeah, smooth Sam, like a schoolboy caught out past curfew. Can't wait to hear what you say to Dean when he asks why you scrambled to his side… during a freakin' snow storm… after he said he wasn't hurt." _Hard on the heels of that thought his inner voice mimicked his brother's words and mocking tone. '_Yeah, work on that comeback, college boy.' _Whatever irritation that should have surged through him at the way his brother had insinuated himself in his head, never cameNo, instead what it inspired in him was a longing to hear Dean's voice, his rare choice of words, his ridicule, live and in person.

Oblivious to Sam's lie, the girl drawled, taking a strand of her long brown hair and twisting it around her finger, "He shouldna been driving in weather like this."

"Yeah, well, I really need to get to the hospital," Sam countered, refusing to agree with the girl, aloud anyway.

"Don't look at me, I don't have a car. My dad dropped me off here, made me work since school was closed," her displeasure at her father unmasked.

Frustrated at his lack of options, Sam spun around and exited the lobby, using more force on the door than was necessary. Unmindful of the ankle deep snow, he walked across the parking lot, his heart dropping as he took in the empty length of country road stretching out for a good mile in both directions.

Ten miles. That was what separated him from Dean. As snow turned his hair white and littered the already coated ground, Sam stepped into the center of the two lane road, his ears straining for the sound of a vehicle, of a plow, of a snowmobile, heck, even of a horse and sleigh. But silence superimposed the world as effectively as the white precipitation and Sam hated them both.

'_Chill out. Dean's not in danger. He's not even hurt_,' Sam tried to reassure himself, but almost instantly he contradicted every conviction he fought to hold. '_Not hurt, according to **Dean**. You know, the guy who said he was OK after some sickos branded his shoulder, the guy who insisted that he could walk on his own even though his heart was giving out on him. Yeah, that guy.'_

Sighing, Sam squinted more desperately in both directions of the road, unwilling to even internally express his reactions to the tremble he heard in his brother's voice minutes ago, a tremble that had nothing to do with physical pain. Sadly, that was the bad news. Physical pain, now that was something Sam knew Dean could work through, had time and again. Far too often and with levels of pain that were far too severe.

No, the tremble in Dean's usually strong voice was cruel evidence of another layer of emotional scarring being seared into his brother's soul. Scarring, pain, that Dean internalized, seemingly accepted as some warranted punishment, that chipped away at his vulnerable heart, which he could not or would not harden, or safeguard. Long ago, before Stanford, before Sam sought an escape from the Winchester way of life, before his father had ceased to be a hero in his youngest son's eyes, before anyone beyond their family of three held any interest to Sam, the younger brother had vowed to protect his older brother. To protect him where he was most vulnerable: In his heart.

A heart that bled in silence when their father's words struck a seemingly mortal blow, that locked away all the scars that hunting wrought, that remembered all the things Dean would never talk about, like Mom and praying before going to bed. That was irreparably damaged by the betrayal of his innocence, of a belief that the world was fair, that if you were good, good things would happen to you, that if you loved someone, they'd never leave you.

Tears sprang to Sam's eyes, though it was no fault of the stinging, icy wind. '_I have to be there for him! It's my job to be there for him! Please, I need help, I need to get to the hospital._' But no vehicles miraculously appeared on the road, no sleighs slid out from the woods, no sound heralded an answer to his prayers. Biting his lip, he stood there a moment more, hope dying with each snow flake that fell, with the continued quiet. Defeated, Sam spun around and stalked back to their room, knowing that even trekking to the nearest house on foot would require that he was dressed more warmly.

Unlocking the motel room door, he quickly entered, stripped off his coat and yanked out a button-down shirt and a sweatshirt from his bag. Pulling the sweatshirt over the two layers of shirts that he already wore, he slipped on the button down shirt over top before he put on his coat again, wishing he had gotten his gloves out of the Impala's trunk. Knowing that he had done what he could to prepare for his frozen hike, he zipped up his coat and headed for the door, the sight of Dean's gloves on the small table catching his eyes. '_You didn't even take your gloves!_' Sam reprimanded his brother silently as he snatched the gloves from the table before he exited the room.

His head down as he drew Dean's gloves over his fingers, Sam started as a male voice spoke. "Can you get the door for me?"

Sam's head snapped up to see a man in his fifties holding a ladder, looking to Sam as he nodded his head to the door to room 7. But even more happily, Sam took in the sight of the man's 1967 truck parked only a few feet away. The man's repeat of his request dictated that Sam draw his hungry eyes away from the truck and back to the truck's soon to be previous owner.

"Ah, yeah," Sam stammered, coming forward, turning the door knob to room 7 and pushing it open, his eyes again falling on the truck as the man bearing the ladder entered the room. Snatching the truck wasn't going to go unnoticed, not with the man just inside the room, not when the truck was the only vehicle within miles and the world seemed to have succumbed to a mute command. No, charm and utter desperation would have to be his first tools, deception and grand theft auto a close second.

Stepping into the doorway of the room, Sam saw that the room was filled not with motel furniture but boxes, fire proof filing cabinets and over in the far corner, a desk and a chair, above which hung a picture, the room's one solitary decoration. Watching the man set up the ladder below the room's unlit overhead light, Sam spoke, "I need help. My brother…he's at the hospital," somehow it didn't feel right lying to this man, this stranger even as he contemplated his next action should option 1 fail, namely locking the man in the room and hotwiring his truck.

The man's blue eyes swung to him, concern in their depths, the ladder forgotten. "What kind of help?" his voice not wary but gentle.

"I…I don't have a way to get there.. to the hospital. He…he was driving our car …and the girl at the desk said you don't have any taxis around here," chagrined at the way he was rambling on, the way his breath hitched to a halt all of a sudden.

Without a word, the man approached Sam, pulled the door closed and walked to the truck. The older man had opened his driver's side door before he sighted on the tall young man that still stood by room 7, a look of surprise on his handsome features. "Well, we best get you there. You the younger one or is he?"  
"I am," Sam automatically replied as he ran to the passenger side door and clambered into the truck as the older man slid behind the steering wheel.

Starting the engine, the older man smiled to Sam, "Then we better get a move on, son. Older brothers are wily ones, more likely to slip from the doctor's clutches and be walking home than be beholding to their little brother."

A smirk turned up Sam's lips, maybe this man knew Dean personally. Settling back in the old truck's seat, Sam felt some of the tension fall away. He was going to get to Dean, going to be there when his brother needed him, whether the stubborn jerk wanted him there or not.

The going was slow but the man handled the car like a cowpoke handled a mustang, keeping a tight reign on her and gentling her down when she seemed to contemplate shutting down altogether by easing up on the gas. Sam let silence hang in the car, not willing to distract the man's attention from the treacherous terrain, unable to draw his own thoughts away from his brother.

When the engine sputtered for the fifth time but didn't falter, the man shot Sam a look of reassurance, "She'll make her there. Just likes to complain about the cold."

"I really appreciate this. I'll gladly pay you for your trouble and your gas," Sam earnestly offered, ashamed he hadn't spoken his gratitude before then.

"No need. Folks doing what they can for each other, it's what makes the world a place I like," the man drawled, his focus on the road, the windshield wipers doing little to clear up the visibility as the snow fell harder. "This brother of yours, he hurt bad?" shooting Sam a quick glance before he returned his full attention to the white expansion that, in better days, was a blacktop road.

Sam hesitated, wondering what the man's reaction would be if he told the truth, well Dean's truth. He wondered if the man would send him a scowl and turn the truck around, determining that the risk, the trouble to get to the hospital for this stranger's brother that wasn't even hurt wasn't worth it. "He said he wasn't," Sam opted for the truth, of sorts, leaving interpretation up to his Good Samaritan.

"Sounds like you don't believe him?" the man questioned quietly, but Sam noted his eyes didn't swivel from the road, didn't lance him with accusation.

Straightening in the seat, Sam looked out the side window at the white world he could see going by. "Dean tends to downplay things."

"So you gotta keep a sharp eye on him, watch out for him. I admire that."

Sam's head snapped around to face the stranger, surprise registering in his every facial expression, at the man's perceptiveness, understanding, and praise. "He does the same for me…and more." '_Much much more.' _

"It's the way of brothers, of family, taking care of each other, soldiering through the stuff of life at each others side, you having faith when he doesn't and vise versa," the man clarified.

Sam drew in a sharp breath, unprepared to have the word faith woven into the man's description of his relationship with Dean, of family, of brotherhood. Faith was too fresh a wound, too unstable a concept after everything that had just happened. So it was a surprise to hear his own low and hoarse voice ask, "You think faith is important, that one should have some…in something."

This earned him the man's full eye contact for a startled moment before the road reclaimed his sense of sight. When he spoke, his words were gentle. "Life's a bleak thing without faith, without hope in good. Me, I like happy endings, like the silver linings, had my fair share of both. Figure the least I can do is say thank you by believing in the big Guy responsible for it all. He don't ask much really, not compared to all the good He's laid at my door."

Before Sam could fully process the older man's words of wisdom, the truck came to a halt.

"Well, here we are. You going to be Ok getting back to the motel?" the man said with true concern in his eyes.

Looking to his left, Sam could see the hospital, the emergency entrance only a few yards away. Turning back to the stranger, Sam answered, "Yeah, I'll be fine." Then he began reaching into his pocket to pull out his wallet, to repay the man's kindness in the only way he could. The man's callused hand patted his hand.

"I don't want a thing, just glad I could help you. I'll put in a good word for you and your brother with the big Guy."

"Thanks, I…thank you," Sam stuttered, wishing there was more he could say, could express how grateful he was for the man getting him to Dean, for talking to him about Dean, about brotherhood and faith. Coming up empty for words, Sam simply nodded his head, leaped down from the truck, shut the door, gave a wave to the stranger and ran lightly for the emergency entrance.

Running his hand through his hair to dislodge the snow that managed to coat his thick locks during his small jaunt to the door, Sam stalked into the emergency room. As he took in his surroundings, he was surprised to find his breath catching in his lungs, his heart thudding quickly in his chest, to feel dread rip into his gut like the sharpest of knives. Winchesters were no strangers to hospitals, were more intimate with their procedures than any non medical personnel should be. So before he even exited the Good Samaritan's truck, Sam knew what he was walking into, what he would smell in the ER, how charged the air would be with pain and fear, that he would be greeted with the sight of the ill and injured scattered about the waiting room and patient cubicles beyond. But what he hadn't counted on, what he had not reconciled, were his memories, memories of the last time he had been in a hospital. Unmercifully, vivid snapshots of another hospital assailed him, pictures too sharp, too wounding, of Dean lying so still in a hospital bed, breathing only because machines dictated that he breathe, of his father, on the floor, dying.

Stopping his forward motion, Sam took a deep fortifying breath. Forcing his internal slide show to fade to black, he harshly reminded himself that Dean wasn't dying anymore, wasn't even hurt this time around, which, in the Winchester book, was a miracle in and of itself. Having regained some of his equilibrium, Sam started forward again, pulling his hands free of the gloves as his sharp eyes scanned the occupants of the waiting room, searching for the sight that would quell the irrational fear that remained coiled around his heart.

But when Sam was rewarded with the sight of his brother, his dread skyrocketed, causing him to stumble to a halt. Sitting in the yellow, chipped, plastic chair, bent forward, his head down, one hand gripping the base of his neck, Dean Winchester had never looked so dejected.

Worry, fear and pain shifted through Sam as he crossed the distance to his brother in two seconds flat. "Dean?" he gently beckoned, crouching down in front of his brother, his hand falling onto the other man's knee, establishing a physical connection for Dean as much as for himself. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Sam cataloged the coldness of his brother's denim jeans under his hand.

Slowly, Dean raised his head, his eyes blinking to focus. Registering the appearance of his brother, Dean, shaking off his defeated demeanor, sat up in the chair. Dropping his hand to rest in his lap, he demanded, "Dude, what are you doing here?"

"Thought you could use some company," Sam quickly replied without reservations, the time he had fretted about the answer wasted as other concerns overshadowed his worry at Dean's response, namely the sight of blood on his brother's face. "You said you weren't hurt?!" Sam gently accused, his hand coming up to try and inspect the cut on his brother's forehead, barely making contact before Dean pulled away from his touch.

"How'd you get here?" Dean interrogated, sitting back in his chair, his eyes fixed on Sam, crouched in front of him, still trying to grasp the notion that Sam was **there**, had somehow made it there without a car, in a snow storm.

Sam shrugged as if it was no big deal, his tone laced with the same nonchalance. "Begged a ride from the motel's maintenance man." But his sharp eyes were assessing the cut above his brother's brow, marking the blood dried on Dean's too flushed face, noting his brother's seemingly wet hair. And he could feel the slight trembling of Dean's cold leg under his hand. But worst of all was the shadow in the eyes Sam knew so well, eyes that flickered away from him, telling him that there were things Dean was not saying, hurts he was unprepared to reveal, even to his brother.

So, contrary to his tone of voice, detachment was the very last thing thrumming through Sam, not when all the evidence said that Dean had lied, dreadfully. He _was_ hurt, both physically and emotionally, was in dire need of the company of his brother, whether he would ever admit that aloud or not.

Struggling to be the rock Sam believed him to be, Dean quirked, "I leave you alone for an hour and you're begging rides off of strangers. I thought I raised you better than that. You **steal** their car, Sammy." Shaking his head slightly, Dean groused lightly, "I'm starting to feel like my words of wisdom were wasted on you."

"Not all of them," Sam quietly refuted, his tender gaze latching onto Dean's green eyes, remembering what his brother had always stressed since they were both children. "We watch each other's backs, Sammy. Dad protects us and we protect him and we protect each other. That's more important than anything else during a hunt." Sam could still remember his nine year old response, "But Dad says the most important thing is making my shot count, of keeping my game face on."

"Ah..yeah… well that's the first rule of _hunting_, Sammy. But having each other's backs, that's the first rule in _life_, ranks above any of Dad's other rules. You got me?"

'_Yeah, I got you, big brother_,' the here and now Sam thought determinedly, fully prepared to stand at his brother's back and defend him to the death.

Under Sam's scrutiny, Dean fought hard to ward off the shiver that threatened to wrack through his still too cold body. Hoping to cover up the reaction, he fidgeted forward half an inch before sitting up straighter in the chair as the shiver moved through his body like a shockwave.

"Dean!" Sam exclaimed in worried alarm as he saw his brother's body tremble, felt the ripple of the shiver shake Dean's knee where his left hand still rested. Instantly, Sam raised his right hand to cup the side of Dean's face, startled at the coldness of his brother's flesh, his eyes going wild with worry and accusation. "Dean, you're freezing!" he accused a moment before his fingers ran through Dean's hair with a feathery touch. "And your hair's wet!" his tone going subzero, even as his eyes blazed like a white hot flame into Dean's gaze.

Latching his hand around Sam's wrist, Dean pulled his brother's hand from his nearly frozen hair. "I'm fine, Sam," Dean reassured, seemingly oblivious to the way the words almost stammered from his suddenly chattering jaw, to the shiver that wracked his body again, to the coldness of his skin that nearly had the power to hurt Sam's fingers.

"No, you're not, Dean," Sam protested, his voice edging toward a plea for his brother's capitulation. As he started to slip his hand from his brother grip, Sam saw a wince of pain flash across his brother's usual poker face. Before the physical bond could be broken, Sam closed his hand, gently imprisoning Dean's hand. As his palm fully connected with Dean's, Sam felt the unnaturally rough texture of his brother's palm, felt the painful frigidness of the skin in his grasp, knew unerringly that what now coated his own hand was blood, Dean's blood. His worried eyes shot up to Dean's in surprise. The resigned look in his brother's eyes only confirmed Sam's dread.

Sighing, Dean allowed Sam to turn his hand over, watched Sam's profile, saw his brother's features harden into angry concern as he got his first look at his cut and blood stained hand. He didn't even offer up a protest when Sam made the mental addition and quickly snagged his other hand, discovering the matching wounds there. Sam always knew where to find his hurts, on his body and in his heart, the trait both a curse and a blessing to Dean.

Holding Dean's torn hand in his own, Sam winced in sympathy as his deft fingers traced the jagged cuts on his brother's callused flesh. Somewhere in his sharp mind, Sam recalled that Dean had said the kid had been caught in an animal trap, a trap whose merciless teeth could inflict this type of damage on his brother's flesh. When he looked up, Sam's eyes clashed with Dean's calm gaze. "How long have you been waiting for a doctor to see you, Dean?" a dangerous edge to his voice as he asked the question he already knew the answer to.

"I didn't come here for myself, Sam," Dean snapped, yanking his hands from Sam's hold, and pulling back as far from Sam as the chair allowed. Just because Sam could locate his hurts didn't mean he could heal them, didn't mean Dean _wanted _him to heal them. Pain was all cause and effect, was a punishment meted out to the foolish, to the weak, to screwups who failed at every turn. It was nothing short of what he deserved. '_And if Kyle doesn't make it'_….he couldn't finish the thought, not if he wanted to keep it together, to not break in front of Sammy. Then his eyes scampered away from Sam's, fixing on the other occupants of the ER.

'_No, course you didn't come here for you. Taking care of yourself is pretty low on the totem pole,' _Sam sadly realized, shook his head, drew in a deep breath of air as his frustration threatened to control him. With Dean, it was always about other people's safety, not his own, never his own. '_How many times do I have to get that fact shoved in my face before I just accept it?!' _His reply was instantaneous_. 'Never._' Because acceptance seemed too close to approving, to giving Dean the green light to disregard his own life, his own health. And that was something Sam would never condone, no matter whose life hung in the balance. '_Or had hung in the balance_,' his thoughts on his father, on his father's sacrifice, a sacrifice Dean despised …and Sam treasured.

After a moment of scowling, Sam begrudgingly let his frustration give way to pride and love for his brother's compassion. Though he would never stop railing against Dean's selflessness, there was no way he would ever belittle the grave sacrifices Dean had made in this life, for their father, for him. Taking in the vulnerable slump of Dean's shoulders, the downward focus of his brother's gaze, the shiver that sent the usually stoical body twitching, Sam posed his question with honest concern, "So how's the kid doing? Is he going to be alright?" Found he was holding his breath for the answer, sensing that Dean's well being was interwoven with the boy's fate.

Dean gave a shrug and swallowed, his eyes meeting and then scampering away from Sam's too keen gaze, fighting to keep the memory of the blood stained snow from flashing in his mind, to quiet the sound of Kyle's scared voice that echoed in his head, to override his nature to compare his failings to keep Sam safe with Kyle's own predicament. '_Kyle's not Sammy,_' he repeated like a mantra. '_Sam's fine. Sam's right here with you, unhurt. You didn't fail him…_' but the one word tagged onto his affirmation '…_yet_.' The very _possibility_ of that failure started to crumble the wall he hid behind, to make him stumble on the journey he had undertaken, along whose trial he kept Sam at his back, protecting him even as he latched onto his wrist, propelling them both always forward, determined to find the way, to not get lost on the rocky path, to find the light, to be free, to be safe.

Receiving a non verbal reply from Dean, of watching his so strong brother shy away from him, of feeling the pain, the hurt, the vulnerability emanating from a soul usually barracked behind reinforced steel, Sam winced as his heart panged in pain, as helplessness soured his stomach. Recriminations flared in him. '_If only Dean and I hadn't fought today! If we had stayed together…Or better yet, not come here, fallen for this snipe hunt_!' Then Dean wouldn't be here, wouldn't be hurt, wouldn't have his soul bared, vulnerable and lacerated over some kid, some kid he'd never met before today, a kid Sam had never laid eyes on. It was wrong, that some stranger could hurt Dean so fully, that Dean could care so deeply to allow it, had opened himself up to this level of harm …when he barricaded Sam out time and time again. '_Like I'm the enemy_.'

Struggling to not let resentment clamor in his heart, Sam patted Dean's knee, "Come on, go to the bathroom, get cleaned up," striving to make his tone light, as he placed his hand under Dean's biceps, set to help the older man to his feet. Reading Dean's clenched jaw as a forewarning to his refusal, Sam pulled out his best little brother tone. "Please Dean," the plead easily achieved as another shiver ran through Dean, reminding Sam of the way Dean had trembled in his hold after his heart attack, when walking was too much for his once invincible brother, when Dean's every breath was a conscious act, a blessing not to be taken for granted.

"Ah, come on Sammy," Dean whined only to be pierced by the emotions reflected in Sam's eyes, fear for him, love for him. Coming to his feet, Dean internally griped about Sam's hold over him even as warmth flared to life inside him, weakening the wave of shivers that thrummed across his nervous system a moment later.

As the shiver rippled through Dean, Sam stepped closer to Dean, his grip tightening on the muscled arm in his grasp, his fear palpable. It earned him Dean's unflinching gaze, incited the ever resilient protective older brother to make an appearance.

"I'm Ok, Sam," Dean drawled gently, "just cold."

"And wet and hurt and bleeding and worried …." Sam countered, his tone thick as the words rushed from him, expressing what his eyes had been telling Dean from the start, that Sam was concerned, was scared, that he hurt when Dean hurt. Swallowing audibly, Sam let the last category go unqualified, sensing that it was the booby trapped subject, where trespassers wouldn't be tolerated.

Putting his energy to good use, Sam did a visual sweep of his surroundings and found that the bathrooms were down the right hall. "This way," he said, jutting his chin to the right as he steered Dean down the hall, unnerved at his older brother's quiet submission. The act was too reminiscent of the quiet trek they had made back to Dean's hospital bed…after their father had died, with Sam's arms wrapped around Dean, supporting the body that had been in the grips of a coma, of death only hours before. And Sam remembered, that with every fiber of strength he possessed, he clutched onto Dean's soul, onto a soul shattered and scarred, resolved to not lose Dean, to never lose Dean.

Now that resolve flared in him again, hard and implacable. Whatever happened today, they would face it together, would weather the storm side by side. His brother's words echoed in his heart, "We watch each other's backs, Sammy. We protect each other." '_Yeah, yeah we do Dean. To the death_.' "You know you look like crap Dean. Your chances of picking up a nurse are nil," he teased aloud, needing to hear Dean's comeback, to see some sparkle glimmer in his brother's too serious eyes.

Knowing what Sam wanted from him, Dean dredged up a smirk, "You always underestimate the Dean charm, Sammy. Two nurses hit on me in the waiting room."  
"Riiiighhhtttt.." Sam drawled sarcastically, "Were they asking if you were an organ donor or who your next of kin was?"

Sam's comeback spurred an honest to goodness snort of laughter from Dean. "Oh, good one, college boy. You take a course on witty insults…"

"No, I was raised by a smart mouthed brother," Sam tossed back, humor in his voice and affection in his eyes as he pushed his older brother forward, prepared to patch up that smart mouthed brother in a bathroom, with nonexistent supplies. Which were standard operating procedures, really, if you were a Winchester.

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TBC

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Thanks for reading!

Have a great day!

Cheryl W.

24


	4. Chapter 4

All Grace Abounds

By: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, Dean or Sam, nor am I making any profit from this story.

Author's Notes: I am not a doctor, medic or even someone who currently watches a medical television show. Therefore all medical procedures in this tale should be considered hogwash. (I know, if I injure someone I should at least know the best way to fix 'em. I'll work on that…maybe…ah…ok, I'm not gonna work on it. Hurting is my specialty …I'm gonna just focus on that.)

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Chapter 4

With the hospital's men's bathroom door only a few paces away, Dean, drawing upon the strength he had, jerked his arm from Sam's grip. Crossing to the door, he found Sam at his heels. Halting, Dean did a quarter turn so his eyes could meet his brother's. "I got this!" he growled, all acceptance of Sam's help, of his own weakness suddenly vanishing. His brother's words unknowingly reminding him that he had raised Sam, that he was the protector, that he was solely in charge now that there father was gone. He had to stand on his own, didn't have the luxury of being weak, of wanting to lean on someone's strength, on Sam's. That wasn't his role anymore, it wasn't the role his father had assigned him, had ever assigned him really. Turning away from Sam, he entered the bathroom.

The door had barely started to swing shut before Sam was pushing his way into the bathroom, frustration singing through him, his desire moments ago to see some of brother's stubborn spirit forgotten. Nor did he relish facing the flare of anger in Dean's eyes as his brother swung around, took a stance, warning him that he was pressing his luck.

"Sam, I said I got this!" When Sam made no reply but tried to side step him, Dean pressed his right hand against Sam's chest, halting him. Wincing as his cut hand came into contact with Sam's coat zipper, he realized that he was leaving a bloody smear on the fabric. A regretful look crossed his features as he raised his hand.

Looking down at the blood on his coat and then to Dean, Sam tilted his head, his lips pressed together, his eyes lancing into Dean's green eyes, clearly saying 'Yeah? You want to lie to me some more.'

Dean shrugged, smirking before he offhandedly offered in a way of apology, "It'll wash off," playing as if Sam's concern, frustration, was over the state of his coat instead of the state of his brother.

"Yeah, cause that's what I'm worried about," Sam snapped angrily. Slipping by Dean, he crossed to the sink and turned on the water. After a moment, Sam put his hand under the water, testing the temperature.

Knowing that Sam knew as well as he did that cold water worked best on blood stains, Dean didn't tender any instructions. Instead he silently started forward, his destination the next open sink past Sam, surprised to find his brother suddenly blocking his path.

Having taken a step back from the sink, purposely putting himself in the way of Dean's path, Sam steeled himself for the confrontation that always came when he had the audacity to insist on taking care of his older brother. By the look in Dean's eyes, he would have his work cut out for him.

Raising his eyebrows at Sam's actions, Dean exclaimed tiredly, "Dude, I'm sorry about your coat, alright!"

'_Stupid jerk! This is not about a coat and you know it_!' screamed through Sam, even as he determinedly trapped the words behind his clenched jaw, his blazing eyes. Dean didn't always respect words, but actions, he wasn't as good at denying. Giving a small nod as if he were accepting Dean's stupid apology, Sam waited until Dean's guard dropped slightly before he made his move. Shooting his hands out, Sam trapped both of Dean's wrists in his unyielding but none the less gentle grip.

"Sam…" Dean growled in warning, tensing, his eyes searing into Sam's wholly unrepentant and undeniably determined face. None of it forewarned him that in the next instant, Sam would unleash his formable strength on him.

Having chosen the path of action, Sam didn't hesitate, knew that to hesitate would shut out his chances of success. Tightening his grip on Dean's wrists and quickly setting his stance, Sam yanked his brother to the right, across the two steps to the sink, and plunged his brother's bloody, ice cold hands under the water's warm flow. He was troubled that his actions caused Dean to stumble, his hip impacting none too gently with the side of the sink even as Dean let out a hiss of pain or surprise as the water hit the nearly frostbitten skin of his hands.

"It is too hot?" Sam instantly asked, though the water seemed warm as it splashed on his own uninjured hands which were still wrapped around Dean's wrists, ensuring that his brother wouldn't evade the healing properties of the water.

"Crap, Brunhilda!" Dean growled, shooting a sharp look to his left where Sam's face lay inches from his own. "Where'd you learn your nursing skills?! From the Nazis!"

Sam felt shame at his tactics but didn't relinquish his hold on Dean, instead he crowded closer to the older man, shouldering Dean to turn fully toward the sink. Pulling Dean's hands further under the water, watching as the water ran red, Sam said nothing, found as always, the sight of Dean's blood made his gut clench and his throat draw close.

An unnatural silence fell between the brothers. Missing were Dean's further protests to his brother's mothering and Sam's lecture about Dean taking better care of himself. Unknowingly they had traveled into new territory, the terrain rocky and unpredictable.

Raising his eyes to the mirror, Sam hoped to obtrusively watch his brother but Dean's eyes suddenly flickered up to the mirror, the murkiness in the green eyes pinning Sam in place. Simultaneously they both said, "Sorry about…" then they both broke off, small smiles emerging on their faces, knowing that whatever words had parted them earlier today were forgiven. One more mountain scaled; another mountain range to go.

Returning his focus to his brother's injured hands, Sam, now certain that his brother's survival skills would outweigh his pride, released his hold on Dean's right wrist, proven right when Dean didn't remove his hand from the flow of warm water. Making no move to set free his brother's left wrist, Sam instead pulled Dean's left hand from under the water and bent down to inspect it. Gently he ran the fingers of his right hand over the damaged skin of his brother's hand, wincing when Dean did.

"So this kid, he was stuck in a trap…" Sam began trying for a lightness he wasn't feeling, not with Dean hurt no matter how marginally, his eyes not straying from his inspection of his brother's ripped flesh.

Not burdened with Sam's piercing gaze, Dean found talking about Kyle wasn't so hard, though his voice was low, rough, hinting at his exhaustion of body and soul. "Yeah, he was walking through a small wooded area about ¼ mile off the road. Some redneck forgot to pack in their traps for the winter."

"And you saw him from the road?! In this weather?!" Sam asked incredulously, his eyes shooting up to Dean's, even as his hands still gently imprisoned Dean's left hand.

"No," came Dean's gruff reply, the underlining text a near shout of 'No trespassing. Violators will be shot.' Then he made an attempt to pull his hand from Sam's hold, to put some distance between he and his brother, to brick up a wall between what Sam wanted to know and what Dean wanted to tell.

Utilizing his quick reflexes, Sam closed his hands around Dean's escaping hand, trapping it. With an aggravated sigh, he shot a glare in his brother's direction. Having been in such enemy territory before to rescue his too stubborn, too self sacrificing, too isolated brother, Sam plunged ahead, landmines beware. "Then how did you find him, Dean?" When Dean dropped his eyes to his right hand and began putting the hand in a fist and releasing it as if testing its strength, Sam pressed, "Dean?!"

Knowing by Sam's tone that this was a bone he wasn't willing to relinquish, Dean looked up, met Sam's piercing gaze and said, "I was walking through the woods…heard…" but broke off. Suddenly he didn't _want_ to mention the music that had guided him to the injured boy. Sure, he was used to people thinking he was crazy. That, however, didn't mean he was keen on the notion of his little brother joining the ranks. Picking up where he left off, he modified, "heard him calling for help."

Sam's eyebrows arched for the sky in incredulous shocked outrage, unconsciously loosening his hold on Dean's hand as he turned to face his brother's profile. "Walking through the woods!? Are you insane Dean! It's like 20 below out there and snowing and …"

"It wasn't like I wanted to!" Dean defensively snapped, stepping back from the sink, turning his full glare on his brother, removing his right hand from the flow of warm water and his left hand from his brother's now inattentive hold.

"Dean, keep your hands in the water," Sam sighed as if he were talking to a stubborn child, reaching again for Dean's wrists. But Dean pulled his hands out of Sam's reach and took a step back, his eyes conveying a warning. A warning Sam had the good sense to not discount. "Fine, let your hands turn black and fall off!" Sam scornfully surrendered, his eyes angry and concerned. "It's not like you use your hands in our line of work or anything?!" he shrugged with the words, the gesture unnatural on such tense shoulders.

Without a word, Dean turned to the sink and slid his hands under the water, not so much a concession as a defiant way to shut his brother up. Knowing that it wasn't time to gloat at his victory, Sam crossed over to the paper towel dispenser and cranked out some of the paper and tore it free. With the paper in hand, he went to the middle sink and turned on the water, adjusting it to cold water before wetting the towel, shooting a look to Dean but was not met with the green eyes, or seemingly any of his brother's attention.

Striving to wring his tone free of judgment even as he wrung out some of the water from the paper towel, Sam levelly inquired, "So what happened? Why were you walking through the woods, Dean?" forcing himself to keep his eyes from Dean, to allow the other man some breathing room.

Shooting a quick look to Sam, seeing that his brother was purposefully not going to look at him, Dean fought down a sigh. Truly he wasn't mad at Sam, hated that he tended to take out his frustrations on his brother because (a) Sam was there and (b) Sam allowed him to. _Because he cares about you, stupid_. Could almost hear Sam's words again, 'You want to hit me again? Go ahead if it will make you feel better.' '_As if hurting him ever made me feel better?! Crap, as if hurting him now is making me feel better, is going to ensure that Kyle makes it.'_

Callously rubbing his fingers from his left hand over the cuts on his right hand, angry at the cuts, at his weakness, at hurting Sam, Dean confessed, "I had a little fender bender.." At Sam's sharp intake of breath, Dean looked to Sam, saw his brother's raised eyebrows of concern, the way he opened his mouth, poised to deluge Dean with even more questions. Heading Sam off, Dean reassured, "It was no big deal, Sam. I just got stuck in the snow, was walking for help when I came upon the kid."

"That's how you got this cut," Sam quietly interjected, turning to Dean and using his wet towel to dab at the dried blood on Dean's temple.

Jerking his head back from Sam's touch, Dean glared at his brother. "Dude, its fine! And we were talking about the kid…"

"Right, cause you getting hurt shouldn't matter, to anyone, right?!" Sam muttered lowly, his frustration slipping past his guard, making his fist close around the paper towel, squeezing the water out to run down his hands and drip unto the floor.

Seeing the frustration spark in Sam's eyes, reading the worry echoing off his brother's essence, Dean relented. Shame came over him, hating that he always made Sam pay a high price for caring about him. His tone gentle, he soothed, "Hey, I'm alright, Sammy. Took a header into the steering wheel, cut my hands getting the trap open but I'm Ok. But the kid…" he faltered, saw the sympathy and strength Sam offered him with just one glance, "… the trap it went pretty deep, he lost a lot of blood…was going into shock…".

Sam nodded his head, understanding and hurting for his brother who strove to be everyone's savior. "Ok, we'll stay here as long as it takes for him to wake up," Sam said steadily, offering up his unwavering support and optimism. "But Dean, man, if he sees you like this…bleeding.." raising his hand to gesture to Dean's blood stained face, "…it's not the most confident, reassuring look you could go with."

Turning to look at the mirror, to take in his own appearance, Dean smirked, "I think it's got a war hero look about it."

"Yeah, like you're part of the living dead," Sam clarified, stepping up behind Dean to look at the reflection his brother saw. "I thought you hated zombies…"

"Your bedside manner sucks, Sammy!" Dean groused, sending his elbow into Sam's gut, smirking at his brother's grunt.

Rubbing his abused rib cage, Sam countered, "You're not in a bed Dean, you're in a bathroom."

"You're always such a stickler for details," Dean grumbled good-naturedly. "Fine, I'll clean up a bit, go a little lighter on the blood and gore look."

"Yeah, it's so last October…" Sam smirked, his shining eyes meeting Dean's in the mirror.

"Tell me when you say something funny. I don't want to miss my cue to laugh," Dean snarked back, raising his left hand to trace the cut on his temple.

"Here, let me see it," Sam insisted, slipping again to Dean's side and knocking his brother's hand away from the wound. Dabbing at the wound again with the now drastically less wet towel, Sam bit his lip as his ministrations uncovered the wound that the blood had concealed. "Doesn't need stitches…"

"Told you…" Dean boasted.

Sam continued, his tone unflinching as he again looked to Dean, "But it needs to be disinfected and pulled together with some butterfly bandages. Less you changed your mind and now think ladies like scars on your face?"

Instead of making a reply to Sam's question, Dean conceded grumpily, "Fine, when we get back to the hotel I'll disinfect it, throw some dumb bandages over it." Wincing as Sam swiped the now rewet towel down his cheek, taking off the blood like it were paint. "Easy, dude! There's my skin under there!"

"Sorry," Sam instantly said, gentling his efforts to remove the blood from his brother's cheek. "So how'd you get to the hospital?" Surprised when Dean's eyes flew to his in surprise and hesitation. "You said the Impala was stuck," he clarified, seeing a question in his brother's gaze.

"It got unstuck," Dean gruffly replied, again dropping his eyes to his hands that still resided under the water, flexing his hands and relieved that they weren't as dumb as before.

Taking the answer at face value, Sam rewet the towel and ran it down his brother's cheek, scowling at the blood that refused to be dislodged. "Hold still," he ordered as Dean jerked away. Then his hand came out to seize Dean's jaw, locking his brother's head in his hold. Pressing the towel on the most residential of the blood stains and squeezing the towel, he let the water soak the skin and run down Dean's face. "You still feel cold," he quietly assessed, unable to ignore the frigid feel of Dean's face in his hands.

"Maybe because I am still cold," Dean shot back as if that was a no brainer.

'_Yeah, Sam, course he's still cold! He's standing here in his nearly frozen clothing while you're wearing six layers of clothing!'_ "Crap, sorry.." he said, pulling back he dropped the wet towel in the trash, crossed over to the towel dispenser and dried his hands, conscious of Dean's eyes on him the whole time. Shrugging out of his coat, Sam tossed it over the trash can before he undid the buttons of the top shirt he wore took that shirt off and laid it on top of the jacket before he pulled a sweatshirt off over his head.

"Who are you? Mr. Rogers?!" Dean quirked, his eyebrows creased together as he watched Sam take off three layers of clothing.

"Yeah, dumbbehind, won't you be my neighbor," Sam retorted without missing a beat, shoving his sweatshirt and his button-down shirt at Dean. "Here. Take off your wet clothing and put my stuff on before you get pneumonia and become more of a cranky jerk than you already are."

A moment passed as Dean's eyes met Sam's, the elder Winchester not making a move. Seeing that Sam wasn't passing judgment on his weakness, that his brother just wanted to help, needed to help him, Dean smirked, "So you're not doing this for me but for you, right?"

Glad for the opening Dean allowed him, Sam snorted, "Well, yeah. Absolutely."

"And get it straight, you're the dumbbehind, not me," Dean informed, carefully drying his hands on the paper towel his brother handed to him.

Turning off the water, Sam stood a moment, switching from one foot to the other as he watched Dean slide off his stiff, frozen leather coat, wanting so badly to offer his aid even as he knew Dean would resent further mothering. Certain that he wouldn't hold out for another minute as he saw a wince mar Dean's face as his hands set to their task, Sam hurriedly promised, "I'll be right back," unknowingly, wearing that 'I'm in charge now' look as he exited the bathroom.

As the jacket left his frame, Dean couldn't fight down a shiver as he stood there in his t-shirt, making him glad that Sam wasn't there to nail him with his worried, lip biting expression. Pulling the t-shirt over his head, Dean almost sighed in contentment as he settled the dry cotton of his brother's sweatshirt onto his chest. He had almost forgotten what it felt like to be dry, to not have wet fabric coiling around him, making the cold pierce straight through to his bones.

But the relief at donning the dry sweatshirt began to fade as he struggled to get his still uncoordinated fingers to complete the task of buttoning up the outer shirt. Sharply, it reminded him too forcibly of kneeling in the snow beside Kyle, struggling to undo the buttons of his own shirt, the boy's blood soiling the pristine whiteness, the boy's pained but trusting eyes fastened on him.

"Hey, you alright?" Sam's voice startled Dean, sent his head flying up to note that his brother was back, was hovering at his side, ripped his mind from its recriminations and worries.

"Yeah, fine," Dean replied, hating the rough quality of his voice, knowing it revealed something to Sam he would rather have kept to himself, was confirmed of that fact when Sam's brows drew together.

To Sam, reading Dean was like trying to predict where you'd strike oil, a task as hard as it came yet worth everything you risked when you hit the mark. Groping for the right path to navigate his brother's emotions, Sam opted for the long way around. He could wait for Dean, would always wait for Dean. "Here, let me do that," he quietly scoffed, pushing Dean's trembling hands aside from the buttons, making quick work of the task, anticipating Dean's refusal of his aid.

Instead of an out and out refusal, Dean offered up a string of grumblings. "I don't need your help to dress myself, Sam! Been doing it before you were born..been dressing _you_ since before you knew what clothing was.. forced you into clothing after you did your standard streak outside in the buff."

"I did not streak outside in the buff!" Sam denied heatedly, the light in his eyes revealing the fractures in his mask of annoyance. "You're the streaker Dean, then and now!"

A smirk tilted Dean's lips and a sparkle gleamed in his eyes. "Why deprive the world of this beauty!" he gloated, pointing to his chest with both hands. "Dude, even I'm not that heartless."

"Yeah, you're quite the humanitarian, Dean," Sam muttered, finishing up the last button. He had to fight to keep the smirk off his face at the sight of only Dean's finger tips peeking out from the sleeves of his shirt. '_Don't say anything, don't say anything_!' he coached himself, knowing that the cotton fabric cocooning his brothers cold hands was the best thing.

Catching his brother's look but unable to interpret it, Dean demanded, "What?"

"Nothing," Sam innocently answered as he turned his focus on the bottle, bandages and sterile pads he had balanced onto the rim of the sink when he first reentered the bathroom. "I tracked down some antiseptic and some butterfly bandages." Dousing a cotton pad with liquid from the bottle, Sam turned to Dean but found his wrist gripped in Dean's iron grasp, effectively halting his hand midway to his brother's head wound.

"I can do it," Dean protested.

"Yeah, you could but you don't have to. I got this Dean," Sam gently stated but his eyes held a plea. '_Let me do this for you, Dean.'_

Only too familiar with seeing someone he loved hurt, to feel like he had failed them, Dean sympathized with Sam now that the shoe was on the other foot. He understood that Sam felt the burning need to help him, to ease his pain, to erase some of his own misplaced guilt. Nodding his head in consent, Dean released Sam's wrist. He didn't flinch as the antiseptic burned when it made contact with his head wound nor did he allow a wince to crease his features when his brother's deft fingers pulled the torn skin together with butterfly bandages. But he didn't miss his chance to quirk sourly, "There are rules about practicing medicine in hospital bathrooms without a license, Sammy. I'm keeping my options open to sue."

"Yeah, 'cause I've got so many possessions you'd want," Sam drawled back, putting the last bandage on the cut.

Dean lips pursed in thought before a cocky smile lit up his face that, Sam noted with relief, was regaining some color. "I would take your cell phone," Dean announced, proud of himself. "Certainly not that stupid shirt with the big horse looking dog on it. I mean, please, have some taste, dude! I have a reputation to maintain but with you standing there wearing …well most of your wardrobe, it's been a trying time for me, Sammy."

"Excuse me Mr. GQ but you aren't looking your best right now," Sam sallied, unable to let the means to retaliate slip from him. He tugged on one of the cuffs of Dean's arm sleeve which rested just above Dean's fingertips.

Yanking the sleeve from his brother's hold, Dean huffed, "It's not my fault you've got ape arms that drag on the ground." With frustration, he started rolling up the sleeves so he didn't look like a kid playing dress up in his father's clothing.

"Here, you need some help, shorty!" Sam teased, making a fake reach for the sleeves.

Brutally slapping his brother's hand away, Dean growled, "Get off me!" When this only provoked laughter from Sam, Dean shoved Sam's shoulder, making the taller man stumble back a step but did nothing to dampen his mirth. "You're such a loser!"

"Takes one to know one," Sam sing songed, dousing another sterile pad with antiseptic. "Ok, let me put some of this on your hands," surprised and grateful when Dean obediently positioned his hands out over the sink, offering his hands up to his ministrations. Bracing Dean's hand within his own hand, Sam dabbed the antiseptic into his brother's ravaged flesh. His eyes narrowed as he felt the hand in his grip tense but not withdrawal, revealing the trust Dean had in him better than a thousand chick flick moments ever could. Releasing Dean's left hand, Sam repeated the procedure with his brother's right hand. "I should wrap your hands but…"

"That ain't gonna happen.." Dean cut him off, defiant.

Sam looked up to Dean a moment before returning to his task, "Yeah, that's what I thought you'd say. It'll just have to wait until we get back to the motel. Least they seem warmer," he breathed in relief. His task done, he released Dean's hands and watched Dean clench his hands into fist and release them a few times. "Are you hands numb at all? How bad is the pain?" his concerned tone matching the look he used to gauge the reaction that might reflect in his brother's face.

"The numbness is nearly gone. Just stings now," Dean answered truthfully, feeling that he owed it to Sam, to his brother who had hitched a ride in a snow storm to get to him and was taking great pains to patch him up. He almost smiled at Sam's startled look, his tactics catching the younger man off guard. "Let's get outta the bathroom, Sam or people will start to talk," he quirked heading for the door, more amused than angry when Sam blew by him and got to the door first, opening it easily with his fully functional hands. "After you Speedy Gonzalas," he muttered, raising his hand indicating that Sam should precede him out of the bathroom though his audience was already out of the bathroom and patiently holding the door open for him.

Passing "doorman Sam" while shaking his head at his little brother's mother hen routine, Dean turned left to head back to the waiting room and promptly froze. The next instant he stumbled forward two steps as Sam ran into his back.

"Dean why'd you…" Sam began to protest before he looked over his brother's shoulder and felt his muscles freeze up. Breaking from his stupor he quickly gripped Dean's shoulder, yanking him backwards even as he stepped in directly in front of him, his arm bent backwards around Dean, preventing him from stepping out of his shadow. He knew it was a vain hope that he had acted quickly enough, that he had successfully obscured Dean from the view of the police officer that stood just down the hall talking to an intern, an intern that was pointing their way.

Sam cursed lowly as the cop began to bear down on them. "He's coming this way," he hissed under his breath. In synchronized motion, both Winchesters swiveled around only to be greeted by the sight of another cop closing in the distance from the other end of the hallway, his eyes on them as he talked into his radio.

As he stood side by side with his brother, Sam's hand latched onto Dean's bicep in a death grip, his heart pounding in his chest as his mind raced. They were caught midway down the hall between two cops, a hallway where no exits lurked and beside a bathroom without windows. A glance behind him confirmed that the other police officer was closing in as determinedly as the officer in front of them. It occurred to him then and there that Dean's Good Samaritan routine that day was going to come at a high cost, Dean's freedom, maybe even his life.

TBC

Ah…because no fic is complete without a cliffie…

Thanks for reading!

Have a great day!

Cheryl W.

33


	5. Chapter 5

All Grace Abounds

By: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, Dean or Sam, nor am I making any profit from this story.

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Chapter 5

Sandwiched between two approaching police officers, Dean felt an all too familiar sense of defeat coil around his gut. '_Crap, this is getting to be old hat_…' ashamed that in a few months time he had found himself at the mercy of gun weilding cops twice, first at Karen's house and then in a small forest just outside Baltimore. '_Least these cops aren't going for their guns…yet_.'

Knowing how quickly things escalated when it came to men and guns, Dean abandoned his flight or fight stance and let his shoulders fall, all the while keeping his hands in plain sight. Sliding his eyes to Sam, he shook his head, adamantly forbidding his brother to make a reckless move, just like he had done in that forest, a corrupt cop ready to put a bullet in his skull. Dean valued freedom, maybe more than the next man, but not more than Sam's freedom, never more than Sam's safety. No, he wouldn't risk Sam, not even to dodge the death penalty.

Though he registered the protest in Sam's eyes, the panic, Dean pulled his arm from his brother's grip and slowly turned around to face the first cop they had seen, who Dean instinctively knew was lead officer. After all, alpha male always recognized alpha male.

Setting his jaw, Dean prepared for what was to come, for the feel of metal cuffs scoring into his wrists, for the ache that would flare into his shoulders as his hands were yanked behind him, for the clawing helplessness that would struggle to run rampant within him as it became clear that he couldn't get free, couldn't protect Sam, couldn't even protect himself.

'_This sucks out loud_,' Dean grumbled internally, sighing, putting on the 'I'm so bored /just another day at the office' look for Sam who had also turned around. With his brother standing at his shoulder, still radiating that flight or fight reflex, worry gripped Dean. And worse yet, fear, fear that Sam would risk himself in some misplaced notion to save him. "Don't Sam.." he ordered lowly, his eyes beseeching Sam to obey him in this if he ever obeyed him in anything.

Reading the desperation in Dean, Sam was shocked to realize it was for _him_ not for himself, was generated because he feared for his little brother's safety, worried that Sam would do something reckless, put _himself_ in danger. Clenching his jaw, Sam obstinately vowed to seize any opportunity to get Dean away from the police, to keep Dean one step ahead of a jail sentence, to ensure that his brother never ever faced the death penalty. And if that meant drawing a line in the sand right here and now, amid the sick and dying, he would do it, because he wasn't willing to put his brother's fate in the hands of justice, to let anyone take Dean away from him.

So, instead of relenting to his brother's unmistakable order, Sam drew himself up to his full height. When he stepped closer to Dean, their shoulders touching, he felt the formidable Winchester wall flare to life, a wall that many had tried and failed to breech. With his muscles tensed for action and his heart thudding loudly, Sam stood silent but inside he railed at himself for not seeing this coming, for not remembering that, with their family, things could _always_ get worse.

'_Sammy!!'_ Dean internally growled, glaring at Sam as his brother stubbornly took up a defiant stance at his side. '_Just great. Sammy wants to play this like the OK corral… except we're unarmed and we're cast in the role of the Clanton brothers. Yeah, even I remember how well it turned out for them in the end_. _On the bright side, when it's all said and done, they can just roll us right down to the morgue, do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars. Yup, Sam, freakin' super time to decide you wanna stick closer to me than glue._'

Desperate to not let it come to bloodshed, especially Sam's, Dean decided to take the bull by the horns. Stepping forward to outflank Sam, he met the police officer in the one meter zone, primed to go quietly. However, he was wholly unprepared for the cop to wrap his arms around him, to _hug_ him, tightly! Wondering, in shock, if this was some new technique devised to subdue perpetrators, Dean barely registered the cop's words.

"Thank you for finding my boy!" the cop gasped out, desperate, thankful, emotional, clutching tighter to the young man in his arms, to the man who had saved his son's life while he himself was cruelly unaware of his son's plight.

Sam Winchester wasn't shocked by much in life but seeing his brother, his determinedly 'hands off' brother, caught in a bear _hug_ by a _cop!? _That rocketed right through his pokerfaced façade. As his wide eyes met Dean's over the cop's shoulder, he knew his own features matched Dean's surprised, distrustful expression, making him uncertain how to react. But when the cop's words finally sank into Sam's brain, relief doused his wired nerves, making him want to sag against the wall. The cop was the boy's father…wasn't Dean's escort to the gas chamber.

Tracking Dean's expression as it flickered from wariness to relief to embarrassment, watching as his 'no chick flick moments' sibling uncomfortably patted the cop lightly on the back, Sam couldn't fight down a smirk. Caught in the act of bemusement, he received a promise of retribution from his brother's hard green eyes, which only upgraded his smirk to a full fledged smile.

Beneath the glare he leveled at Sam, Dean felt his own emotions threatening to overwhelm him at this man's, this _father_'s gratitude. He felt ashamed when a prick of jealously surged through him, at what Kyle had, _who_ Kyle had. As the older man released him from the killer bear hug and stepped clear of his personal space, Dean stammered, "Ah…yeah, well, I just stumbled onto him…was just a piece of luck that I found him."

"If there is anything I can do for you…" Kyle's father earnestly offered.

Instantly Dean shook his head, answering, "No, I just want Kyle to be OK. Have you heard anything about his condition?" he asked, his concern real and urgent.

Shadows of worry became more visible in the older man's eyes as he shook his head, swallowed. Then his eyes swung past Dean to meet his partner's as the other cop joined the threesome.

"Jason, I got another call.." the other cop started, regret in his tone and stance.

"No, I understand, Tony. I know we're on the job…" a flicker of regret sparked in Kyle's father's eyes, obviously torn between loyalty to his family and loyalty to his duty.

Seeing the conflict in the other man, Dean was surprised to feel a kinship surge within him. He knew that particular conflict, only too well. Found that he was glad when the partner gave him a free pass by simply saying, "Duty's important but family comes first, Jason. Call me when you know something about Kyle's condition." He watched silently as the two cops shook hands before Tony disappeared down the hallway.

Turning back to the Winchester brothers, Kyle's father seemed to come to realize that he had bypassed the formalities. "Oh, I'm ….well, I'm Jason, Kyle's father," and he held out his hand to Dean.

Shaking Jason's hand, Dean countered with, "I'm Dean and this is.." ready to issue his brother a fake name, to establish Sam as simply a colleague of his, just in case the wind changed and handcuffs started to make themselves known.

"I'm Sam, his brother," Sam intercepted, shaking Jason's hand in turn, proud to seal his connection with Dean. Without looking at Dean, Sam could feel his brother's reproof, knew Dean had been prepared to distance himself from him if not physically then verbally. But Sam found that he didn't want that, couldn't bare that. He was Dean's brother, it wasn't something he was ashamed of, a role he donned only when meeting grateful fathers instead of federal agents or pissed off spirits.

With the pleasantries over, Jason looked toward the emergency entrance and shifted his feet, "My wife…" he took a swallow to put more strength in his voice. "My wife was in the middle of a trial…she's…she's a district attorney."

Behind him, the Winchester brothers' eyes flew to each other, chagrined. Internally both saying '_District attorney?! Oh yeah, sure, that sounds about right for our luck!' _

Oblivious to the reaction his words caused, Jason finished, "She was so upset when I called her that I told her to get someone else to drive her here." Turning back to the brothers, who quickly switched their grimaces into small smiles, Jason stammered, sounding more like a scared teenager than a forty year old cop, "I…I guess there's nothing to do but take a seat and wait. You're staying, right?"

Dean's gut tightened as the father's voice mimicked the son's, as if he were also asking 'You'll be here, right? Won't leave?' His voice was low as he answered, "Yeah." Clearing his thick throat, Dean repeated, his tone more controlled, "Yeah, I thought I'd hang around..make sure Kyle was OK."

Seeing that the two men before him were hampered from moving by their emotions, Sam took the reigns. "There were some open seats in the waiting room when I came through a couple of minutes ago…" Dean looked to him and held his hand out to indicate Sam should lead the way. Heading down the hallway, Sam felt the presence of the two men at his back, the convict and the cop. A nervous laugh nearly escaped him. If only Jason knew he had just hugged a man on the FBI's wanted list…but the thought soured as quickly as it amused. Wanted list. The freaking FBI's wanted list. And here Dean was now, taking a seat beside a _cop_ while he waited for his _district attorney_ wife to show up. Dean liked to play his cons ballsy but this was way out of the park.

Sitting between Jason and Sam, Dean was surprised to find it was Sam's leg that bounced nervously into his. Shooting Sam an annoyed and yet concerned look, he was surprised to see Sam's eyes darting around the waiting room, taking in everything, analyzing his findings, seemingly unhappy with the results. When he nudged Sam with his shoulder, earning his brother's eye contact, Dean saw that Sam was biting his lower lip, a sure sigh that his little brother's worried mode was in full swing. Dean raised his eyebrows in silent inquiry of what Sam's problem was. It garnered him a heated eye-bulging, eyebrow raised reply from Sam that clearly said, 'What my problem is, is soooo obvious!'

Deciding that denial was a safer avenue, Dean shrugged, twisted his hand in the air to complete his 'What?!' statement. If the fire that flared in Sam's dark eyes was any indication, Dean's deception was not lost on his brother. Slipping his eyes from Sam, Dean turned his focus on Kyle's father, was struck by the hunched poise, the way the man ran his big hands through his brown thick hair only to drop them into his lap, clenching them. Dean couldn't help think of his own father. He knew his father had willingly sacrificed his soul for him but he couldn't help wondered if John Winchester had ever sat like Jason was now, scared, hurting, panicked, worried, for his sons, for him.

Dean knew it had not been John Winchester's way to hand out tender touches, deeming such actions nothing short of crutches, crutches he would not allow his sons to lean on, to count on, to need. Such weakness was not tolerated, could not exist, not with the work they did, not with the prey they stalked, not with the life they lived. Swallowing hard, Dean wished he was like Sam, that he didn't remember what John Winchester had been like before he took up the hunter's life. Wished he didn't realize the extent of what had been stolen from him, from Sam before he even experienced it. He both treasured and hated his memories of when his father's touch was a commonplace thing, when his father's big hand would tenderly ruffle his hair, when strong arms easily scooped him up into his father's arms, when his father's voice rang with love when he said his name, as if _he_ mattered, not for the hunt, not because he was his partner but because he was his _son_.

Tears threatened to spring to Dean's eyes as he sat there watching Kyle's father's tangible anguish. Because, in that moment, Dean knew in his heart that he would rather have been blessed with one of those rare tender crutches from his father a thousand times more than he wanted the 'gift' his father had bestowed on him. Would have rather had one of his father's strong calloused hands stroke his hair, to come to rest on his shoulder, more than he wanted to live while his father died, bartered his soul away for him. Would have gladly scarified the knowledge that his father was proud of him to hear his father's gruff voice say 'I love you'…just once.

Sam felt Dean's anguish before it ever reflected on his brother's too well trained facial mask, before Dean straightened in his chair, locked his jaw, and swallowed hard. Felt it like it was his emotions, like the pain was his own. Seeking out the source for Dean's sudden emotional upheaval, Sam leaned forward in his chair, enabling him to better study his brother's profile and gave him a full view of Jason's besieged posture. Though Sam knew Dean empathized with the feeling of others, especially when it came to family, that didn't account for the level of despair pouring off of his brother.

Both brothers nearly jumped when Jason's quiet choked voice interrupted their thoughts, "I've been hard on him, on Kyle. Too hard," and he raised regret filled eyes to Dean and Sam. "I tried to make him like me…independent, you know, so no one can hurt him. _Forced_ him to be independent…even when he didn't want to be…And now…" rubbing at his eyes, shaking his head, "now to think he was out there all alone, hunting…"

"Taking pictures," Dean corrected before he could stop himself. An instant later, as Jason looked at him as if he were speaking in tongues, regret tore into Dean as he realized he might have sold Kyle out somehow. Clearing his throat he clarified, "He wasn't hunting, he was taking pictures..of the snow," he tagged on when confusion still lurked in Jason's eyes. Considering explaining further, Dean stopped as Jason sat back in his chair, ran his right hand down his left arm absently before he faced Dean.

"He likes taking pictures. Me? I like hunting. I …I wanted him to go hunting with me, wanted that to be the _one thing_ we did together. So a couple of months ago he and I started hunting. Kyle dropped a buck his first time out. He's an excellent shot…better than me," a proud, sad smile tipped up Jason's lips but didn't chase the pain from his eyes. "But when he saw the buck… I knew, I _knew _it hurt him to see it dead, to know he had killed it. He never said a word though, just smiled when I said how proud I was of him, blushed when I bragged how much he was like me." Jason shook his head, "He did that for me. Went hunting, killed that buck because he wanted _me_ to be proud of _him_, was so desperate to spend time with me that he did something he hated…" Frustrated, Jason sat up straighter in his chair, "I made him go hunting the rest of the season…and he…he never complained, never purposefully missed a shot. And I let myself believe that he liked it, loved it…"

"But what he actually loved was you…" Dean quietly revealed as if it were from his own soul, as if the words were his own, were to his own father, now irrevocably gone.

A tear slipped from Jason's eye and streamed down his cheek as the man nodded his head, words impossible. Before Dean could think of what to say to make things better, a light shone in Jason's eyes as he came to his feet, quickly crossed to a woman rushing into the ER and engulfed his wife in a hug of support.

It had never occurred to Sam that hunting wasn't all his brother wanted out of life, had _ever_ wanted out of life, not until recently. Not until Dean had bluntly said, "I'm tired of this life", had suggested tossing aside hunting to hide away in Amsterdam. But now, listening to Dean gently deliver a revelation to Jason about his son, Sam wondered if the words were solely for Jason, about Jason's relationship with his son, weren't words that Dean had held his peace from speaking for twenty three years to his own father. For a moment, Sam just sat there, watching Dean's face, hoping Dean would just _talk_ to him, would let him know how he felt, how he _hurt_.

Sensing Sam's inspection, Dean whined, a frustrated edge conveyed in the two words, "Ah…what?!" before lancing his eyes into Sam's intense gaze.

It wasn't the opening Sam wanted but he jumped through anyway. "Dean, did.." knowing right away that his voice had come out too gentle, too quiet, too choked with emotions to garner the reaction he wanted from Dean.

"Sam. Don't." Dean warned lowly, his eyes backing up the threat his words implied. "Just don't." Dean's nerves tightening as Sam, instead of backing off, shifted in his chair to turn fully to him. When Sam drew his left leg up onto the chair, Dean knew his little brother had strategically put himself in the perfect position to burden him with his undivided attention.

"I thought…you always seemed…" Sam wavered, not in fear of Dean's reaction but in hesitation to accept the truth. Shaking his head marginally, he dismissed the illusion he wanted so badly to cling to. His next words were quiet, sad, hating the revelation even as he accepted it. "You didn't want to hunt, did you? Not in the beginning."

"I was seven, Sam!" Dean answered instantly, bitterly, as if his brother should have known the answer to the question, should have always known the answer, though he never spoke it. Tearing his eyes away from Sam's hurt expression, Dean watched an old man hobble into the waiting room. But he could hear Sam swallowing beside him, could feel the tension, the hurt, rolling off of his brother. '_Good going. Hurting Sam. That's always a winner of a plan to make me feel better,'_ Dean growled internally, rubbing at his temple, wincing when he absently made contact with the butterfly bandages and wound

Sam knew that telling Dean he was sorry seemed like another round of 'too little too late', that it would mean nothing here and now. Instead he found he couldn't deny himself an excuse, to defend himself from the accusation Dean's answer leveled at him. "Dean, I always thought…"

"I was the perfect son…" bitter sadness was in Dean's tone, shone through his green eyes as they again rested on Sam.

"I didn't mean that like … I didn't mean to hurt you…" Knowing his words were so inadequate, Sam found himself offering up a confession. "I guess I was just jealous, you know."

"Don't be," and there was ice in Dean's voice, the two words revealing more than a thousand words could about the burden it had been to be that "perfect son", to wear that mantle like a noose around his neck.

But other words rang inside Sam's head, Dean's words from Rivergrove. '_I'm tired of this weight on my shoulders_.' With clarity, Sam understood the weight Dean carried consisted of more than the secret of his little brother's possible fate, of keeping him safe, saving him. It was about an act of self sacrifice that had started when Dean was _four,_ it was about Dean putting his family's needs before his own. "Hunting, you did it for Dad," Sam quietly stated, finding that he couldn't bring himself to tie his brother's sacrifice with him, with his needs, with what he asked of Dean. But one thought wouldn't stay quiet, '_Yeah, like killing me if I go dark side.'_

"And for mom," Dean amended, his voice so quiet that Sam had to lean over to hear the words.

Truth. Sam had asked for it but he kept finding out that getting it from Dean always ended up scoring his soul, made him come to conclusions he never wanted to face. "And now you're doing it for me," he breathlessly said. He didn't need the acknowledgement in Dean's eyes but it cemented everything for him. Quickly he threw out, "We could stop, Dean, could just wait for Ash to get a hit on his tracking …" forgetting about his own path to redemption, his own plan to save as many people as he could so he would be spared his own fate, would be worthy enough to be saved.

"It's all I know how to do, Sam," Dean sighed, as honest as he knew how to be. Finding himself taking Kyle's advice, dropping his guard, letting Sam know him, the real Dean Winchester. It was up to Sam to decide if he liked the person his brother was. "Being a hunter is the only thing I know how to be," he confessed, finding some reassurance when Sam didn't look away in disgust, when no recriminations sparked in his brother's features.

"You can be anything you want to be. Can do whatever you put your mind to. I know your strength, Dean," Sam answered ardently, hoping his conviction, his belief, his pride in Dean shone through his words, radiated from every look he had ever leveled at his brother.

Dean smirked sadly, "What could I do that matters more than this job, Sam? More than saving people's lives?"

"You could do something that makes you happy, keeps you safe, that didn't lead to you getting hurt, getting patched up in bathrooms instead of exam rooms," Sam said brokenly, trying to not let tears gather in his eyes. Dropping his voice lower, so it didn't carry further than Dean, he counter offered, "Or how about saving lives and getting the recognition for it, the gratitude, instead of it getting you a top billing on America's Most Wanted. I want more for you, Dean. I always have."

"Sam, just stop," Dean harshly preempted Sam's fairy tale. Dean knew the path that had been chosen for him, knew in his gut that Sam's fate was negotiable, that his own was not.

Refusing to deviate from the course of action that was laid on his heart to follow, Sam firmly made his pledge. "I asked you what you wanted for yourself and you said for us to stay together, to be a family. Well, I'm not going anywhere Dean, we're together, we're staying together. But that doesn't mean we have to keep on hunting, that we can't pick a town and make a life for ourselves."

"Sam, that's a dream that's come and gone," Dean refuted, not unkindly but firmly, hating that he was always the one to shatter his brother's dreams, to slap him with the bitter realities of life, of _their_ lives.

Sorrow seared into Sam. "I…I know Dad's gone…that you think that you and I aren't enough of a family …"

"No, not that!" Dean denied emphatically. "I mean a life without the hunt. Sam, I wish I could, but I can't pretend I don't know what's in the dark, can't sit on my hands when I hear someone's getting hurt, killed by an evil _I can stop_. And I can't get my identity back, can't magically erase my name from the Fed's database. There is no going back, Sam, no safe alternate universe I can slip into. This is it…for me."

Sam flinched. Dean's words, Dean's tone, they were so close to his own back in the Rivergrove clinic, when he was giving up, when his only thought was saving Dean, of making Dean see that he had to leave, that things were hopeless. And Sam found himself almost repeating the same dialogue, almost firmly saying 'it doesn't have to be.' But the fear that Dean's reply might be unchanged, might be as hopeless, as telling, as desolate as it was in that clinic, stopped Sam, made him search for another escape route, for another path to their salvation.

It came to Sam then, the gift his brother had once given him when another such crossroad lay before them, threatening to make the path under their feet diverge. "Dean, you let me have my dream…you let me go to college."

"I didn't let you…" Dean instantly protested, not with anger or hurt but simply a correction to the facts Sammy always seemed to get wrong.

"You didn't stop me…" Sam supplied evenly, quietly, gratefully, watching as Dean stilled. "You never asked me not to go. That would have stopped me, you know. I would have torn up the scholarship, grabbed the rocksalt and kept watching your back. Just one word from you…and I would have stayed, Dean." '_With you, for you_.'

"Sam.." his brother's name a protest, an entreaty, an endearment.

"But I'm going to say it to you, it's unfair but I never play fair when I'm going after something I want. Stay. Stay with me Dean." With the words that had been fighting to get free for months suddenly released, Sam unknowingly held his breath, scared of Dean's reaction, his mind searching frantically for a counterargument to Dean's possible refusal.

Indignantly, Dean stated, "I'm not going anywhere," angry that Sam apparently hadn't been listening, hadn't believed him when he swore to protect him, to save him from his fate!

"You sure?" Sam's voice was impossibly quiet, pained, his eyes beseeching his brother to make things right, to save him. "When I was infected….when you were at the crossroads…you weren't thinking about staying.. you were thinking about leaving."

"I was thinking of saving you, Sam!" Dean defended, his tone hard, so contradictory considering that he was talking about an action born out of love.

"And you think I will appreciate it if you sacrifice your life to protect me? That I won't feel the same way you feel about Dad doing the same thing for you?" Sam watched as Dean's eyes dropped, as his brother's walls threatened to lock him out. "I want you with me, to face things together, to share the weight between us. And I want you to get your dream Dean, to be who you want to be instead of who Dad made you, instead of being who I am forcing you to be.

Without looking up at Sam, Dean mumbled, "You're not forcing me to be anything or anyone that I'm not, Sam."

"That right?" Sam gently challenged. "'Cause last time I checked, you open up more to strangers like Gordon than you do to me."

Mentioning the unhinged hunter's name had Dean's head snapping up, had him hissing, "Don't go there, Sam."

Seeing that he had touched a raw nerve, Sam relented, "I'm sorry. I just…it hurts when you open up to other people and not me." Snorting he joked, "You probably told the kid you rescued something about yourself that you never told me." But when Dean looked away, a tinge of shame flashing in his eyes, Sam accused, "You did, didn't you?!" At Dean's silence, Sam pressed heatedly, "Dean?!"

"Crap, Sam. Don't take it so personally!" Dean grumbled, meeting Sam's hurt gaze.

"You're _my_ brother," and Sam couldn't help it if he sounded possessive, if his tone of voice mimicked a child who was heartbroken that his older brother chose to spend more time with his friends than with him.

"That doesn't mean you have to know everything about me!" Dean snapped back. '_That you **want** to know everything about me.'_

"You won't let me know you like I want to," Sam accused, wishing he had Dean's trust like Dean had his.

"No one knows me better than you, Sam!" Dean confessed, making it sound like an accusation instead of a compliment.

Stunned to his core at his brother's words, at their implications, Sam felt his gut twist painfully. Numbly, he stammered, "Dean, Dad knew…"

"He knew his son as well as Jason knows his," Dean cut in, nodding his head toward Jason and his wife as they stood by the nurse's station. "He saw what he wanted to see, used what he could, discarded the rest."

His brother sounded so forlorn, so lost, Sam uttered what he thought mattered the most, the evidence that proved how wrong Dean was. "He died for you."

A sad bitter smile turned up Dean's lips and guilt poured from his eyes as he turned back to Sam, to the lost look his brother wore. "Yeah, yeah he did. And you know what I keep thinking…he said he was proud of me, that I took care of him, of you, that I had to save you…but he never said he loved me, never told me to save myself, not once. That's what I wished he had done, had said. Forget all the sacrificial lamb crap. I just wanted him to treat me like his _son_ just one more time, Sam. And then he could have left me go and that would have been enough for me, more than enough."

"Excuse me," interrupted an unknown male voice, bringing Sam and Dean's startled eyes up to find Kyle's doctor standing in front of them. "Are you related to Kyle Stap?"

"No…I.." Dean began but Jason's urgent voice snagged the doctor's attention.

"I'm Kyle's father and this is his mother. How is he? Is he going to be alright?" Jason spoke in rapid fire succession.

"I'm sure you're anxious to see Kyle, so I'll explain his condition as we walk," the doctor kindly said, surprisingly shooting Dean an apologetic look before he began to walk away, Jason and his wife at his side, hanging on his every word, words Dean and Sam couldn't hear.

In the doctor's absence, silence choked the air between the brothers with all that had been said between them, with all the things that the doctor had not said. "I'm sure Kyle's going to be alright," Sam reassured, reading the worry in Dean's taut posture. "The doctor… he wasn't wearing that expression…you know."

Turning curious eyes on Sam, Dean questioned, "What expression?"

Suddenly Sam felt his throat close, remembering too sharply the expressions that two doctors had worn as they both told him that Dean was slipping away from him. "The 'I'm sorry but there's nothing I can do' look," his words thick, barely audible in the waiting room whose occupancy was increasing every minute.

Dean opened his mouth to ask what made Sam such an expert on 'that_'_ look when he remembered the look his doctor had on his face when he walked in his hospital room and told him he had had a heart attack, that his heart was damaged, that he was dying. His own throat felt tight as he mumbled, "Oh…that look. Yeah, this doc wasn't wearing that look, looked relieved."

"Like he was able to give good news for a change," Sam added.

"Yeah, he did." Dean looked the direction the doctor had gone, uncertain what to do next, where this all left him. Kyle had his parents with him now. There was no need for him to stay, to believe that Kyle wanted to see him, needed to see him. And Sam was right, the doctor wasn't going to be handing out a gloom and doom prediction, Kyle was OK. That conviction, however, didn't dull the need Dean had to see the kid, to see with his own eyes that he was fine, wasn't dying, that he had indeed saved him.

Reading the uncertainty in his brother, Sam was about to tell him that it was OK with him if they hung around for a while longer when the doctor came around the corner. He walked right up to them, a determined, if sheepish look on his face. It caused both brothers to come to their feet to greet him.

The doctor looked ten years older than Dean but his eyes were old, like Dean's. Had seen too much, had seemingly sacrificed a part of himself to stop what he couldn't bare to idly stand by and watch. "I'm not really suppose to release any information to you about the boy…" the doctor started, his eyes solely on Dean, "but I saw the way you were with him..and then he kept talking about you…" Shaking his head, the doctor's resolve solidified, "I just wanted to let you know that he's going to be OK, thanks to you. If he had lost more blood, been out in this weather any longer, things would be very serious right now. He would be fighting for his life."

Relief overwhelmed Dean, so deliriously glad that the special kid he had met only an hour before was going to be fine. Then a crease wrinkled his brow, "He talked about me?"  
A smile lit the doctor's tired features, lightening his eyes. "Oh yeah. He told the whole trauma team how he had prayed to God for help and then you came. That God had sent you to rescue him." Noticing the surprised look on Dean's face, the doctor continued, "He said you were out here in the waiting room, that you weren't going to leave him. That thought, that promise of yours, it kept him calm, kept the shock at bay, kept him alive." Without forewarning, the doctor extended his hand to Dean, instinctively knowing that the younger man was in his line of work, the business of saving lives, one small boy at a time.

Dean was touched and thrown off kilter by Kyle's words about him, about God, by the admiration in the doctor's eyes. Deeply honored by the hand that was being offered to him, Dean shook the doctor's hand. Finding that he couldn't help voice his gratitude for the doctor's own actions on the boy's behalf, he said, "Thanks for taking care of Kyle."

"Seems I got the easy job," the doctor lightly countered, pulling his hand free of the hand shake only to slip his hand under Dean's hand and inspect the injured flesh of Dean's palm. "Looks like you cleaned it up pretty good but it should be wrapped…" the doctor diagnosed, latching unto Dean's other hand, his silence saying that he came up with the same diagnoses with it as well.

"I know. I was going to wrap it but…" Sam faltered under Dean's glare and the doctor's smirk.

Releasing Dean's hand, the doctor eyed up the cut on Dean's forehead pronounced by the butterfly bandages. With gentle fingers he inspected the cut, looked to Sam instead of Dean when he spoke. "Looks like you got this under control too. Are you a medic?"

"No, just my pain in the butt little brother," Dean groused, making Sam blush and the doctor laugh.

"Yeah, I got one of them too," the doctor commiserated happily, dropping his hand. "I hate when they overstep the boundaries…think they are the older one," he sarcastically said, shooting Sam a wink. Focusing back on Dean, he seriously asked, "Have you had a tetanus shot recently?"

"Yeah," Dean said gruffly, cutting off any further fussing from the doctor or Sam.

"Alright. Guess I'll leave you in the hands of your know-it-all little brother," the doctor smiled, nodded his head and walked away.

"Ah shut up," Dean laughed without looking to Sam, knowing his brother was wearing a big goofy grin.

"Hey, I didn't say a thing, Dean," Sam protested, laughter in his voice as he reclaimed his seat in the waiting room.

Caught off guard when Sam sat again, Dean turned to Sam, a question in his eyes.

"Well, you can't leave without seeing the kid, Dean," Sam offhandedly said, as if it were obvious, was a given. At his words, Sam was pleased to see some of the tension leak away from Dean's features, felt his own tension loosen as his brother sank back into the chair at his side.

Leaning back in his chair, Dean couldn't stop himself from sneaking a look at Sam, at being touched by his brother's compassion for him. "Sam.." he croaked out before he cleared his throat. "I…I appreciate what….thanks," he managed to get out.

"Don't mention it," Sam answered, the light in his eyes telling Dean that he valued his stammering words of thanks, would tuck them away with everything else Dean said…and never said, didn't need to say. After a moment of silence, Sam shook his head as if to clear it, "So let me get this straight…**you** wrecked the Impala?" a devious grin on his face, remembering only too clearly the lectures he had endured about _his_ mishandling of the precious metal member of the Winchester clan. It was almost worth the crappy events of the day when he saw the light of protest spark in Dean's eyes. Yeah, it might be a long wait until they could see Kyle but it wouldn't be a tedious one, not with Dean around, never with Dean around.

TBC

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Thank you so much for reading and I would love to hear your thoughts!

This tale should wrap itself up in two or three more chapters…(Thought I'ld give you that much info just in case you guys were worried that I was never going to finish dragging this story out. I just keep coming up with issues I want the boys to deal with. Them with issues?! Where do I get such crazy ideas, huh?!)

Again, I really appreciate all of you readers out there!

Have a great day!  
Cheryl W.

44


	6. Chapter 6

All Grace Abounds

By: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, Dean or Sam, nor am I making any profit from this story.

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Chapter 6

Nervousness gripped Dean as he and Sam approached Kyle's room, the fact that according to Jason, Kyle had demanded to see him, only amplified his uneasiness. He wasn't any good at this part, this follow-up stuff. Rescues he had a handle on. Post rescue chats? They were well out of his league, were always awkward. Truth was, given a choice, he would opt to tangle with a nice safe homicidal ghost than be embroiled in this type of emotional charade any day of the week.

It was a mockery, really. Suddenly these strangers wanted to pretend that their shared experience bonded them together, that they _knew_ him simply because he had saved their lives. Instead, it only cemented in Dean's mind the bitter truth; they didn't know him, at all. He was just the guy that saved their life, most of the time they never even knew his name, wouldn't remember his face. And they would never know why he was there, why his path crossed theirs, would never really care because they got what they wanted from him already, to survive, to live to tell the tale, to scamper away from their brush with the supernatural and never look too closely into the dark shadows ever again.

But this time, with Kyle, Dean didn't want it to be that way, to be a lie. It had felt too real, too personal out there in the snow. The boy's blood on his hands, the undeserved trust that blazed in the boy's eyes, the fragile feel of the twelve year old's body in his arms, the promises he had vowed from the depths of his soul, no, this time Dean had given something of himself away, something few people saw. And he wanted Kyle to somehow sense that, to _know_ him when so many others did not. It surprised Dean, to feel the need to prove to this boy, this stranger, that he didn't view him as just another mark on his 'lives saved' tally, that he was special to Dean.

More than anything, Dean knew, with rare self honesty, that he wanted to be special too. To a boy he didn't know, really, a boy that reminded him of Sam, of himself, of a childhood that he could have had. To a boy who was so vastly different than he was him, who believed there was good in the world, believed in Someone good, Someone that would send a Good Samaritan along in a snowstorm to rescue him, even if it was a tainted Good Samaritan by the name of Dean Winchester. Sam's hand on his arm startled Dean out of his thoughts.

Snagging Dean's arm, halting his brother's forward motion, Sam said, "You go in," nodding his head toward the door to the boy's room, a gentle smile on his face.

"What? Come in Sam," Dean entreated gruffly, turning fully to face Sam, feeling as if his brother was leaving his back unprotected during a fight.

"No, he wants to see you, Dean. I'll just wait out here, grab a coffee in the waiting room on this floor," Sam denied, starting to walk backwards as he said, "Don't rush on account of me. I mean it."

"I never do anything on account of you, Sammy, only in spite of you," Dean shot back and watched as Sam shook his head, spun around and ate up the hallway flooring with his long legs. It left Dean alone, a door before him, a door that led to a twelve year old, that seemed ominous, able to take him down, to make Dean Winchester, hunter extraordinaire, want to turn tail and run. Because, for once, he wanted something from the exchange, from the person he had rescued, something for himself, not for anyone else.

It left him vulnerable, that need, left him feeling foolish and lost and stupid. The need to see Kyle, to know he was alright, really alright, however, did not leave him. And then there was the fact that Kyle had sent his father down to the emergency room to get him, certain that he would still be there, that he would hold to his promise. '_Suck it up, Dean. Put on your game face and show the kid that you keep your word.' _

Pushing open the door, he walked into the room, another layer of worry sliding free as he saw Kyle in the hospital bed, alive, looking so much better than he had when he had been in his arms. He hadn't found his voice when Kyle's eyes flew away from his mother to land on him.

"Hey, Dean!" Kyle called out, his voice's weakness didn't diminish the happiness in the tone, or taint the beaming smile on his face.

"Hey there, kiddo," Dean greeted, touched by the boy's welcome, his eyes sliding from Kyle to his mother. "I'm Dean," he announced, extending his hand as she came around the bed toward him, her no nonsense suit screaming lawyer. His hand shake was returned instantly and his throat tightened as he saw tears gathering in her eyes. '_No, not again_!'

"Thank you, thank you for saving my baby," she said fervently, and then it came, the hug, quick, light but still strong.

As she pulled back, Kyle let out a whine of "Oh mom, you're embarrassing me."

Laughing amid the tears, she moved back to her son's side. "That's what mothers do, honey. Every chance we get," she teased and gently stroked his cheek.

The tender scene struck a chord in Dean, a memory of his own mother's soft fingers stroking his cheek, the sound of his mother's laughter making him smile, the look in her eyes that she reserved for him and him alone. Blinking away what suspiciously felt like tears, Dean smiled as Kyle spoke to him.

"My dad wasn't sure you'd still be here but I knew you wouldn't leave, 'cause you promised you'd stay," Kyle revealed, still clinging to the trust he had in Dean, had had in him from the start.

Dean was deeply humbled by the faith that the boy had in him. It caused his voice to be rough and low when he spoke. "Yeah, yeah, I did." Swallowing and offering up a watery smile, he stepped up to Kyle's bed. Looking down at the still too pale boy, Dean lowered his defenses, allowed the boy to see in his eyes the tender regard he had for him, let him hear it in his words. "How are you doing?"

"The pain…it's almost gone, just like you said it would be," Kyle said quietly, his eyes fixed on his hero. "And the doctor said that I'll be good as new in a few weeks."

"Maybe you'll even have a cool scar to impress the guys with and make the girls swoon," Dean sallied back, wagging his eyebrows.

Kyle giggled, making him seem so much younger than his twelve years. "Right, 'cause tough guys have scars."

"Absolutely," Dean agreed emphatically.

Shaking her head, Kyle's mother gave a long suffering sigh of, "Boys. They never grow up do they?" her eyes switching from her son to her son's hero.

Dean exchanged a conspiring look with Kyle, then they both turned to Kyle's mother and said in unison, "Nope." It elicited laughter from the woman and put a happy shine in Kyle's eyes.

All three occupants of the room turned their focus on the door as Jason entered, bearing two cups of what smelled like coffee. "Here you go, hun," he said to his wife, handing her a cup before turning to Dean. "So did Kyle say thank you already?"

Dean caught the flush of embarrassment color Kyle's cheeks at his father's words, at the order that lay under them. "Yeah, he said it before." '_In more ways than words ever could, with his trust in me.'_

"No, I…" Kyle objected, shooting his father an uncomfortable look, as if the words he wanted to say couldn't be said in his father's presence. As if steeling himself, the boy's eyes came back to Dean. "I wanted to tell you…to thank you. You saved my life." Slipping another look to his father, Kyle's tension faded as he received a proud smile and a nod.

"Are you from around here, Dean?"Kyle's mother asked, her curiosity catching Dean unawares.

"Ah..no, just passing through," he answered amiciably but vaguely.

"It was a miracle that you were out there on that stretch of road. How'd you end up finding Kyle? The traps, they aren't set that close to the road," Jason said, sounding like every inch the interrogating cop, his sharp eyes seemingly waiting for Dean to drop eye contract, indicating a lie.

"Well I got my car stuck, was walking to get to a phone when I heard…" with a blush, Dean modified, "well I thought I heard some music. Gotta get my ears checked apparently," his laugh too forced even to his own ears.

"And you were just walking through the woods and you saw Kyle," Jason surmised, a piercing look in his eyes.

There seemed a hint of disbelief in the cop's tone, a sense of cross examination that raised Dean's hackles. "I heard him call for help and then I saw his red hat, led me right to him," he stated, a harder edge to his voice than he wanted as he stood toe to toe with Kyle's father.

A tense silence filled the room only to be broken by Kyle's quiet matter of fact statement. "My hat's white."

Drawing his look from Jason, Dean smiled genuinely at Kyle. "Yeah, right, sure it's white," appreciative of the boy's joke.

"No, really, it's white," Kyle insisted, watched as confusion slipped into the older man's eyes. "You said you saw my red hat but it's white. Mom, show him my hat. It's over there in the closet with my coat," Kyle insisted pointing to the closet. Unwilling to deny her son anything at this point, Kyle's mother walked over to the closet and retrieved the hat, gave it into Dean's hands.

Numbly, Dean stood there looking down at the hat in his hands, the white hat. Fear and confusion and wonder swirled within him because he knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that it was the red of Kyle's hat that had lead him to the boy amid the whiteout. "I…I guess I was wrong," he choked out, handing the hat back to Kyle's mother.

"It's because I prayed for help," Kyle quietly explained to the noticeably shaken man before him. "God can make white hats look red if He wants to. He…He does some pretty cool things sometimes…for his disciples and missionaries. To save them. But I…He never…this is the coolest thing He's ever done for me."

At his son's words Jason stiffened at Dean's side, shocked at the bold way his son professed his faith. But Kyle's mother gripped Kyle's hand, gave it a reassuring squeeze. Then the entire family of Staps looked to Dean, waited for him to speak, to blink, to react in some way.

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As he left Dean to visit with Kyle alone, Sam smiled as he heard a little boy's voice call out, "Hey Dean!" before the hospital room door closed, leaving him traversing the halls alone. The boy's obvious fondness for Dean reminded him of himself, when he was a boy, reminded him of the excitement, the awe, the happiness that always washed over him when his big brother would return from a hunt.

Still smiling, Sam made his way to the waiting room on the floor. His brother thought he was such a mystery, such a hard case but really he hadn't changed all that much over the years. '_Yeah, Dean, big tough guy…who always gave me piggy back rides and let me eat while he went hungry. Who always guards me even if it means opening himself up to attack. Who vows to save **me** but needs our father to **tell **him to save himself. But yeah, nothing much has changed, he's still big brother and I'm still in awe of him.'_

Shaking his head at the complicated, confusing relationship he shared with his brother, Sam was about to cross over the threshold of the waiting room when the smell hit him, the smell of coffee. He had smelled it a thousand times before, had smelled it just that morning as he greedily drank down the strong brew from the diner. But here, amid the sterile "comfort" of the waiting room, that smell triggered a memory.

A memory he had tried to bury, to compartmentalize, to dismantle. The memory of his father lying on the hospital floor, unmoving, of numb fingers letting go of a paper cup, of a pain lancing into his heart, a panic cutting off his words. Could remember the feel of cold tile under his knees, of leaning over his father's body and knowing, _knowing_ that his father was gone and there was no getting him back. Though, that certainty didn't stop him from bellowing for help, or rebelling against the truth, or hauling Dean out of his bed, believing that Dean wouldn't let it happen, wouldn't just stand there helpless like he was. Even the fact that he was the only reason Dean was on his feet, was holding his brother's extremely weak body in a tight, supportive grip, did nothing to diminish the faith he had in his brother's strength of will. But John Winchester's will was stronger, was always stronger, always outranked his sons' desires.

Pulling back from the waiting room, Sam leaned against the wall as the room spun and his breath came in gasps. Bending over, his hands braced on his thighs, the wall alone keeping him upright, Sam closed his eyes wondering when the pain would lessen, when the grief would stop choking him, when the guilt, anger, shock and _gratitude _would not be so close to the surface.

It seemed inconceivable, that he had gone for his father's 'cup of caffeine' and came back to find him on the floor, not breathing, his heart still, silent. Now that the pieces were laid out on the table, he knew that while he had been relegated to waiter, strategically sidelined, a momentous battle had been waged, his fate had been revealed to Dean, and his father sealed the bargain he had made in blood.

But he had missed more than those five minutes with his father, had missed four _years_. And the loss was bitter, just like the words he had hurled at his father in the hospital and before. Every contact they had, generated sparks, flames, fires until his father's words doused them all 'Can we not fight. Sometimes we fight and I don't even know what we are fighting about.'

Hearing footsteps, Sam drew in a deep breath, a steadying breath and stood up, relieved and embarrassed that it wasn't Dean but a nurse who was walking his way. Giving a weak smile as the woman passed, Sam rested his head back against the wall. He couldn't change what had happened between him and his father, not before his father died and not before he went to Stanford. Things stood the way they were, had to.

All that had changed was the way he felt about his father.

John Winchester had always been willing and ready to die for his cause, to gain his revenge. It was something neither of his sons had ever verbalized but also could never deny. Since Sam was young, he had been braced to watch his father risk his life for others, to see his father hurt, to face the truth that his father just might die in the final battle.

But _how_ his father had died, _when_ he had died…it was cruelly out of left field, on the heels of the relief and happiness over Dean's recovery, in the middle of a quiet hospital room, no struggles made, no retaliations offered. It made no sense, broke every conceivable way Sam had envisioned losing his father.

No, the only thing that made sense was _why_ his father had died; For Dean. It gave his father's death purpose, colored his previous wrongs with a softer shade of understanding, made him _worthy_ of Sam's love again. Went a long way in restoring Sam's faith in him, in the man that was supposed to protect his children, not put them in harm's way for some vengeful obsession, who had been more drill sergeant than father for most of Sam's life.

'_Here I am, mourning the guy who told Dean to kill me if he can't save me_?!' But there was no recriminations there, not anymore, not after seeing the evil that lurked in the other "special" children like him, not after Gordon's taunts, not after the spirit of Father Gregory looked at him so pointedly and said "Some people need redemption, don't they, Sam?"

No, he couldn't hate his father for the promise he had exacted from Dean, a promise he himself had pleaded with Dean to swear to uphold. Instead he felt like he owed his father some measure of gratitude, for setting the gauge, for ensuring that he wouldn't be lost without recourse. Dean was his recourse, his savior, had always been, would be again. Dean, who was alive now, was not hooked up to a ventilator clinging to life, struggling to ward off a reaper… because of his father's love, of their father's love for them both.

'_You done good, Dad_,' Sam lovingly thought, using one of his father's own phrases. Straightening from the wall, Sam began to walk back toward Kyle's room, his need for coffee and his fortitude to be away from his brother gone simultaneously.

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Patiently waiting outside Kyle's room, leaning against the wall, Sam straightened as the door opened. Glad to see that it was Dean making his exit, he took a step forward.

Sam's presence surprised Dean, had him grappling to stow away the emotions that had slipped to the surface as he turned away from the Stap family and headed out the door, as he took advantage of the small window of emotional freedom he thought he had. Any hope that Sam hadn't perceived his turmoil died the second his eyes met Sam's.

"Dean, what is it? Is it Kyle? Is he not alright?" Sam demanded, his concern for his brother and not the boy as he closed in the space that lay between himself and Dean.

"No, no he's good." Dean smiled and light sparked in his eyes. But it was not bright enough to illuminate the dark depths, to ease the stiff stance of tense muscle, to unclamp the jaw coming together too tightly, to disguise the rapidness in which the smile faded away. Seeing Sam shifting from one foot to another, knowing words were gathering behind his brother's brain, Dean briskly said, "Let's get outta here," and began walking down the hallway.

Flanking his brother, Sam didn't spare much attention for the hallway they were traveling, instead his eyes held onto his brother. "What is it, Dean?" he gently asked, his voice quiet, concerned. Dean's clenched jaw was an answer in and of itself. An answer Sam didn't like, at all. '_Ten minutes, that's all the time we were apart! What could have happened? Did Jason or his partner ID him from some warrant? Did the kid say something to him? If that kid said something to hurt Dean I'm going to… Yeah, what, Sam? Beat up a twelve year old who is in the freakin' hospital?!_' Pacing Dean, Sam almost laughed, knew instinctively that it would have been a little hysterical, as he realized how out of hand his thoughts were. How protective he could become of his big brother. '_I guess I get that honestly_,' he admitted as he thought fondly of Dean's protective streak that even outranked his stubbornness.

Feeling the shift in Sam's 'tell me everything' mode, Dean shot a look to his brother. "What?" surprised to find a smirk trying to make an appearance on Sam's face.

"Us, man," Sam admitted with a gush of air, allowing the smirk time in the sun, shaking his head. "We are so not normal."

A tired smirk was mirrored on Dean's features, "Yeah, I've noticed that," and some of his tension faded. They weren't normal, he knew that, what they did for a job, what they sought to kill their whole lives, how they earned their money, none of it was normal. '_Can't even take a simple drive to clear my head without tripping over the weird.' _

But it was there in Sam's words, in his eyes, the assurance that Sam wasn't going to run away screaming, wouldn't go looking for a straightjacket for him if he confessed what had really happened out there in the woods. Sam expected the weird but what was more, what shone in Sam's worried gaze, what was conveyed just by the way Sam walked beside him, their shoulders almost touching, was the undeniable truth; Sam trusted him, believed in him, loved him, even if he was buckets full of crazy.

The revelation tightened his throat even as it allowed him to croak out, "His hat was white, Sam," as if that explained everything.

"What?" Sam quietly replied, confusion marring his face, outpacing Dean a step so he could look back to better see his brother's full face. "Whose hat was white?"

"Kyle's..the kid's," Dean answered as if it were obvious.

"OK, so his hat was white..I don't see…" Sam said evenly, fearing that a misstep on his part now would incite Dean to shut him out, write him off.

"It was red, Sam. I know it was," Dean stated, knowing in his heart that he wasn't wrong, his skills of observation too honed to make a mistake of that magnitude.

"I…I don't understand Dean. What are you saying?" Sam cautiously pressed, turning more fully to face Dean.

"I heard music too. A hymn. This is…is just out of my league, Sam," Dean admitted, letting vulnerability seep from the look he sent Sam.

Determined to be the rock his brother needed him to be this time around, Sam took a calming breath. "Alright, we'll work through it together. Tell me exactly what happened today when you found Kyle." '_Just tell me, Dean. I'm on your side, man. Always_.'

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Sitting in the Impala, Dean at the helm, navigating the snow covered roads, Sam recapped, "Alright, you heard music and saw a red hat where there was a white one and both of those things led you to Kyle, helped you save him."

"Yeah," Dean agreed, surprised that the details of his little adventure didn't sound so weird when Sam said them. They didn't even sound sinister like they had felt at first, the idea of him being maneuvered, maybe being used by a higher power. "But Sam….It was real…to me, the music, the red hat. I know what I saw."

'_God works in mysterious ways_,' rang between them both, between the eye contact they made but neither said it aloud, acknowledged it, simply pulled their eyes away. For a moment they sat in silence with their own thoughts.

"So we're going back to where you found Kyle to see if…" Sam started.  
"I'm buckets of crazy…" Dean finished, sending Sam a worried scowl that was met with Sam's sympathetic scowl. Automatically, Dean braced himself for one of Sam's pep talks.

Knowing that reassurances wouldn't work, not with Dean, not in this, Sam teased, "Well if you are 'buckets of crazy' man, I'll tell 'em to get you a leather straightjacket. You'll be the envy of all the other mental patients."

"Real funny, Sammy. A real gut buster," but light had returned to Dean's eyes, and the tightness in his mouth had eased. There was nothing like a smart aleck comeback or brutal insult to turn things from bleak to bearable.

As Dean maneuvered the car along the country roads, Sam couldn't help but utter, "Dean, how'd you ever get on this deserted back road?'

"I just went driving." Dean could feel Sam's emotions, knew his thoughts by the silence that hung between them, knew what Sam was starting to believe more resolutely with every piece of evidence presented. For him, though, the jury was still out. Coincidences happened all the time. '_Yeah, but I don't believe in coincidences.'_ At that, he shut his thoughts down, refused to draw conclusions based on…music and white hats and wrong turns and flaring tempers and snipe hunts. It was all circumstantial, nothing he could prove and right now he needed proof, wanted proof, wanted to know, irrefutably, what to believe.

"Dean!" Sam growled in protest a few minutes later, bracing himself on the dashboard, when, without warning, Dean locked up the brakes, sending the Impala skidding across the snow covered road. Resigned to the notion that the ditch was their destination, Sam could only marveled as the Impala came to a stop inches from the ditch, remained nice and safe on the deserted back road, as if obedience to Dean was built into its wiring.

Watching Dean put the car in park and cut the engine as if in a trance, his eyes wide and fixed forward, Sam worriedly called, "Dean?" His nerves tightening at the stunned expression on his brother's face, Sam reached his hand out to grab onto his brother's arm, but his grasp met only with air as Dean got out of the car. Before his brother even closed his driver's side door, Sam was climbing from the car. Standing there in the niche between the open door and the car, Sam felt his mouth go dry as he saw Dean standing stock in the middle of the road, shock radiating from him. "Dean, what's wrong?" he asked, feeling like a broken record but it was the only question he could ask, the only words he could form, the only answer that mattered to him.

Blinking hard, Dean broke from his stupor, turned fully around where he stood, his eyes scanning the road, the fields. Walking forward, his steps felt heavy, weighted down, and it had nothing to do with the snow wrapping around his ankles. Stopping at the front of the Impala's grill, he let his eyes sweep the ground around him, under him, the fields beside him, and the wooded area just over to his right. "It was right here. Right here," he insisted in astonishment, confusion and unyielding conviction, his eyes flickering to Sam's brooding expression. Dropping his eyes down at the snow that circled him, he shifted the snow with his shoe.

Closing the car door, Sam approached his brother warily, like he would a cornered animal. "What was right there?"

Swiveling his inspection from the snow under his feet to the telephone pole on the other side of the road, Dean scowled, ran a hand over his forehead, then over his mouth. As a revelation struck, he dropped quickly to a crouch in front of the Impala and stilled.

At his brother's abrupt motions, Sam cleared the last few feet that separated him from Dean in a worried hurry, causing his right foot to lose some of its purchase in the snow. Just when he feared that he could end up on his butt, Dean's strong hand coiled around his right ankle, halting the slip before it could result in injury.

Shooting a look up to Sam, Dean taunted, "You wanna stop practicing for the Ice Capades and pay attention here." Releasing his grip on Sam's ankle, Dean ran his fingers tentatively over the bumper of the Impala.

Coming to crouch beside Dean, their shoulder's touching, Sam forced himself to stop studying Dean's profile and focus on the Impala's slightly dented bumper. Knowing how protective Dean was on the car, Sam downplayed, "Car got off pretty lucky for hitting a telephone pole."

"Yeah," Dean said but it was a grunt and he swiveled around on his balled feet, "but where's the pole I hit Sam?" raising his hand to encompass the side of the road they were on, the side that did not boast a single telephone pole.

"Here?" Sam asked, pointing to the ground at his feet, "The pole was here?" he clarified, painstakingly attempting to eliminate any traces of doubt or censure or judgment from his tone.

"Yeah," Dean bit out lowly, climbing to his feet, taking a few steps forward before letting his gaze sweep behind them and in front of them. "There are no poles on this side of the road, Sam. None." Anger and frustration flared in Dean's eyes as he stalked back to Sam's side. "You know why? 'Cause there is no _reason_ to have any over here. There is nothing out here. No businesses, no houses, no church playing music. Nothing."

"Except a boy that would have died if you hadn't shown up," Sam quietly declared meeting Dean's eyes unflinchingly.

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TBC

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Thanks so much for reading!!!

One more chapter to go!

Have a great day!

Cheryl W.


	7. Chapter 7

All Grace Abounds

By: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, Dean or Sam, nor am I making any profit from this story.

Author's Note: Well, here's the swan song. I've twicked it, rewrote it, scrapped parts of it and added things at the last minute so I'm a little apprehensive about it. Hope it doesn't disappoint.

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Chapter 7

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Sitting Indian style on the motel bed, Sam wound the sterile bandage through Dean's fingers, concentration drawing his brows together. When his brother tried once again to pull his hand free, Sam lowly shouted, "Dean, stop it!" his patience nearing an end even as he tightened his grip on Dean's wrist, cutting off the appendage's escape.

"Come on, Sam! You're making it look like I'm covering up some skin disease like Michael Jackson!" Dean whined heatedly, his knees almost touching Sam's as the brothers sat face to face on the bed. "You don't need to wrap it through my fingers!" Dean growled disapprovingly, attempting to extract his hand from Sam's hold with more force.

Yanking on the wrist in his hand to keep it in his possession, Sam sent a glare at his brother. Drawing on all the patience he had left, he began to recite, "Dean, the doctor said.."

"Dude, you sound like you're ten again! '_Dad said to do this, Dad said you shouldn't do that, Dad said, Dad said_…'" Dean mimicked, screwing up his face in a scowl. "You were a freakin' broken record."

"Hey, it was the first time Dad told _me_ to take care of _you, _so excuse me fortaking it seriously," Sam defended, his grip unintentionally slipping down his brother's fingers, making contact with the torn skin. His touch elicited a sharp intake of breath from Dean. "Oh..Sorry," Sam grimaced, instantly resettling his hold onto the uninjured area of his brother's fingers.

"Yeah, whoops. There's another lawsuit against you," Dean grumbled, leaning forward to inspect his hand which was still imprisoned in his brother's hold. "And Dad didn't tell you to take care of me, you took that assignment all on your own."

"No, I didn't, Dean," Sam emphatically refuted, his gaze only treated with the top of his brother's bowed head. "Dad gave me the lists of dos and don'ts that the doctor gave to you, then spelled out his own list of dos and don'ts, and he posted the numbers for the doctor, the hospital and his cell phone on the refrigerator. And before he left, he made me promise to take care of you."

Dean's head snapped up and surprise glinted in his green eyes. All of this was news to him. "I wasn't that sick," Dean quietly said, wondering if Sam was mistaken, was confusing his memories.

"Dean, you had pneumonia. Were in the hospital three days," Sam pointed out, shaking his head. '_Leave it up to Dean to forget such details_.' Putting his focus back on his brother's current hurts, Sam wound the bandage around Dean's palm. But the memories weren't so readily banished. Sharply he recalled the weight that had settled on his ten year old shoulders, the terrifying worry that he would fail in his duty to protect Dean, to take care of him as well as Dean had always taken care of him. Remembered waking up in the middle of the night, sprinting from his bedroom, practically running to his brother's room, needing to hear the still marginally strenuous breathes of his brother, to touch Dean's forehead to ensure that his fever hadn't climbed, to reassure himself that Dean hadn't slipped away from him, hadn't gone somewhere he couldn't follow.

Feeling tension begin to radiate from Sam, Dean's eyes narrowed as he catalogued the events of that time. He remembered waking up in each morning to find Sam asleep beside him, remembered breakfast in bed and little nursemaid Sammy playing 'it's time for your medicine'. But he also vividly recalled the arguments that had sprung up between him and Sam during those solitary days in the apartment….when he disobeyed the doctor's orders and crawled out of bed, when he tried to leave the apartment because he was going stir crazy. But the most heated of their clashes was spurred on when he grabbed his sneakers, determined to go for a run. Before his eyes, Sam had morphed into a little version of John Winchester, giving orders and ultimatums and objections that all began with '_Dad said, Dad said, Dad said'_ and ended with '_I'm calling Dad if you do that, Dean. I mean it_.'" It all equated out to be four days that all concluded with each boy slamming their respective bedroom doors. And yet, every morning, there Sam was, laying in bed with him, bringing him breakfast, shoving pills down his throat, taking care of him.

Caught up in his memories, Dean didn't protest when Sam released his left hand only to snag onto his right hand, poised to treat it to its own Michael Jackson makeover. The pieces were coming together now for Dean, making him view that time in a new light, as the first signs of what Sam would become years later, what he was to Dean now; his protector, his right hand man, his fiercest supporter and his best friend. "You did a good job, Sam," Dean quietly praised, causing Sam's head to come up, allowing Dean to read the wonder in his brother's dark eyes before a blush blossomed on Sam's cheeks.

"Wasn't much. Same thing you always did for me," Sam downplayed, wishing he had done more, that he would have been able to lift the mantle of responsibility from his brother's too young shoulders more often.

"Hey, I never hid all your shoes so you couldn't go outside," Dean returned, smiling, remembering how he wanted to throttle little Sammy for that stunt.

Sam smirked, "That's because I _listened_ to you. And I was never some big old macho jerk who got the brainy idea to go for a run a day after getting out of the hospital!"

"It was two days, Sammy, two," Dean corrected, raising two wrapped fingers and waving them in Sam's face.

"Yeah, right. Sorry. _Two_ whole days out of the hospital. That makes all the difference in the world," Sam sarcastically agreed, a reprimand lurking in his tone.

"I got an idea, why don't you wrap that bandage around your mouth, nice and tight," Dean suggested, a teasing light in his eyes belying his intentions. Snagging the end of the bandage roll that Sam was working from off the bed, he sent it arching through the air, unraveling as it went until it bounced off of Sam's forehead.

A mischievous light ignited in Sam's eyes an instant before both brothers lunged across the bed for the end of roll but Sam's unfettered fingers claimed the prize. "Open wide, Dean!" he taunted, reaching forward, aiming the roll for his brother's mouth.

Leaning back from Sam's long reach, wrapping his hands around Sam's forearms, Dean tried to stave off his brother's attack. But Sam pressed his advantage. Toppling backwards, Dean refused to relinquish his hold on Sam, pulling the younger man down with him. The bed jolt under Dean as Sam crashed down beside him on the bed. When the taller man's elbow landed in Dean's side, the older Winchester grunted as the air was knocked from him.

Having watched helplessly as Dean's head barely missed connecting brutally with the headboard when he fell backwards, Sam was determined to call a truce before there was bloodshed. "Time out, time out!" Sam announced as he turned on his side to face Dean and attempted to free his forearms from Dean's steely grip.

Unwilling to fall for the old "time out" con job, Dean tightened his hold on Sam. "No way, Sammy. You say "Brother" and I'll let you go."

Sam was opening his mouth to concede the battle, only for the greater good of his brother, when a knock sounded on the room door. Instantly and simultaneously the Winchesters stilled, their eyes connecting, their mirth vanishing in the apprehensive wake of an unforeseen guest. Releasing Sam, Dean sat up and reached for the knife under his pillow even as Sam rolled from the bed, crossed the two steps to reach his bag and pulled his gun from its hiding place.

Standing up, Dean had every intention of answering the door when he realized that Sam was already at the room's threshold, was waving _him_ back. Irritated at his brother's protective tactics, Dean whispered in a hiss of sound, "Don't wave me off!" In response, he received Sam's raised eyebrows and a heated look which was accompanied by a forceful hand gesture of 'stop'. Dean bristled more when Sam had the audacity to mouth the word "stay" to him like he was some pooch.

Unwilling to cower under Dean's objections, Sam, stepping to the side of the door, called through the wood, "Yeah," his right hand wrapped tightly and confidently around his gun.

"Ah..I don't mean to bother you.." filtered through the door.

Recognizing the maintenance man's voice, Sam hastily tucked the gun in the back of his pants and gave a nod to Dean, watched his brother slip the knife under his pillow again before he opened the door, a smile on his face. "Hey, come on it," Sam greeted, stepping back to allow the man access to the room and to his brother.

Shutting the door, Sam turned to his guest. "I wanted to thank you again but I didn't see your truck when we got back."

"Yeah, I had to run a few errands," the man returned, his eyes drifting to Dean.

Realizing his social blunder, Sam quickly introduced, "Oh, sorry, this is my brother, Dean." It then occurred to him that he didn't know the other man's name, had been so preoccupied with worry about Dean that it had never really matter. "I never did get your name…" he prompted, feeling so foolish. It was ironic how easily immaculate manners surged from him when he was immersed in a con job and how blatantly bad his manners were when he was projecting his Sam Winchester, college graduate, persona.

"I'm Ethan," the older man announced, reaching his hand out to Dean.

Lifting his right hand to meet Ethan's, Dean blushed in embarrassment as the bandage roll still tethered to his partially wrapped hand flew forward and unraveled along the length of the carpet. Sam's bark of laughter only made Dean's flush deepen. Dropping his hand before the handshake could be completed, Dean stammered, "Yeah, ah, sorry about that..Sammy's still working on his eagle scout badges," sending Sam a glare worthy of a grizzly bear.

"Well, you only look a little worse for the wear. Your brother was really worried about you," Ethan supplied, unaware that his words caused Sam's own cheeks to go pink, made the younger man gladly bend over and retrieve the bandage from the floor because it offered him a momentary reprieve from his brother's eye contact. Sam didn't have to look at his brother to know Dean would be wearing a cocky smile.

"I appreciate that you gave him a lift to the hospital. I was glad he was there," Dean sincerely admitted, his eyes straying from Ethan's to land on Sam's stunned but pleased expression.

"Glad I could do it," Ethan honestly confessed before he turned back to Sam. "Well, I just couldn't help myself from stopping in. Wanted to make sure you got back ok and see how your brother was. I'll be taking my leave now." Opening the door he was half way out when he asked, "You boys sticking around town for a few days? I can give you some tips where to eat."

"We're heading out tomorrow," Dean firmly answered, looking to Sam instead of Ethan, reclaiming his victory of the earlier debate with his brother.

Resigned, Sam conceded to Dean's wishes but didn't try to conceal the worry and protest that still sparked in his eyes as they lanced into Dean. "Yeah, we're going to pay a visit to someone in the hospital and then we'll be leaving town," swiveling his look to Ethan and putting on a fake smile as if everything was just swell. '_Yup, I'm thrilled to stay in your little town another day, to uphold Dean's promise to visit a twelve year old kid tomorrow, a kid in the hospital. So what if the kid's parents could put Dean next in line for a lethal injection, why worry about something so trivial as that?!'_

Oblivious to the tension that hummed between the brothers, Ethan amicably suggested, "Well, you should try the Highwaymen's diner on Main Street for breakfast. They serve a mean platter of creamed chipped beef. Night." Then the older man slipped out of the door and quietly shut it behind him, leaving the brothers alone once again.

"Nice guy," Sam allowed, turning to Dean who was wearing a cocky grin. Tilting his head, Sam pressed, "What?"

But Dean just smiled wider and shook his head, dropping his eyes to inspect the loose bandage on his right hand. "Nothing, dude." But there was a mischievous nuance in his tone.

"What Dean?!" Sam pressed, hands on his hip, standing tall, waiting, sensing that his brother was getting his jollies at his expense.

"You," Dean snorted, his eyes shooting up to Sam's confused expression. "You accuse me of spilling my guts to strangers and you, you're busy upchoking your emotions at any stranger that passes by," his words not so much a judgment as a deduction.

"I do not!" Sam denied heatedly, his voice notching higher, would have squeaked in his adolescent years.

Without preamble, Dean stilled as something occurred to him, causing a worried, uncomfortable look to mar his handsome features, his wide eyes to fix on Sam and his voice to be low and his words halting. "Please tell me you didn't…I mean when I was…you know, in lala land after the accident…. you didn't do anything embarrassing did you? You know, like blubber at my side or roam the halls yelling my name or anything?"

To Sam's credit he didn't miss a beat. "No, no blubbering," he reassured evenly, a look of honesty on his face. But a moment later he winced dramatically. "Oooohhhh right, I forgot."

"Forgot what?" Dean demanded, his nerves taut, drawn in by his brother's tactics.

"Well…nah, you don't need to know about it," Sam waylaid, starting to walk past Dean.

Stepping into Sam's path, Dean said dangerously, "Oh yeah, I wanna know. Spill, Sammy!"

"Well, I .."Sam stammered, his eyes sliding between his brother's apprehensive face to the floor, biting his lip for good measure. "There was that one time I…"

"Yeah, you what?" Dean baited, feeling more tension settle in his shoulders.

Sam fought hard to keep the smile from his lips at his brother's worried expression. "Well I…I crawled into the bed with you…" At Dean's horrified look, Sam's laughter broke free, ruining his deception. He was laughing so hard he could barely choke out the rest of his joke, "Yeah I put your head on my shoulders."

"Ah shut up!" Dean ordered, chuckling, as he turned his back on Sam and walked toward the table. But to his surprise, the bandage on his right hand inexplicably tightened. Turning, Dean tracked the bandage from his hand across the distance that stretched out between himself and his still laughing brother.

"Dude, you should have seen your face just now! You were swallowing it all, hook, line and sinker," Sam grasped out between his laughter, bending over because his gut was starting to hurt, astounded that he could laugh at an event that had very nearly broken him. Leave it up to Dean to give him the opening to twist the worst things of their lives into some sick lame joke.

Stalking back to Sam, Dean ripped the bandage roll from his brother's grip, "I was not."

"Were too. Man that was so prime. That..that was my best work, you gotta admit that, " Sam boasted, a content smile on his face.

Having never built up an immunity to Sam's smile, Dean couldn't keep a smirk from pulling onto his lips or fight down the unexpected surge of pride he felt at Sam's charade. "You shouldn't have laughed so soon, Sammy," he critiqued jovially, like he was again teaching his sibling the finer points that made up a seamless con job.

"I know, I know but you…the look on your face …I…" Sam couldn't hold back his croak of laughter. Gasping for breath he said, "That was priceless, Dean, priceless."

"Just great.." Dean sighed, before his eyes sent a threat at Sam. "Laugh it up, geek boy, you know what payback's are…"

"Yeah, exactly what you are," Sam shot back, skipping back a step and causing Dean's swiping hand to simply cut through the air.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

Stepping into Kyle's hospital room, Dean was immeasurably relieved to find the boy sitting up in his bed, sporting color in his face and missing that aura of vulnerability that had hurt Dean in places he did not wish to acknowledge. The same places that could admit that he was glad Sammy was only a pace behind him, that his brother would be meeting Kyle, that he wasn't going to have to say goodbye to the little boy alone.

"You look strong enough to pull the ears off a Gundark," Dean quoted as he approached, instantly generating a surprised, glowing smile from the boy.

"You're a Star Wars fan?" Kyle asked incredulously, awed anew at just how cool Dean Winchester was.

"Absolutely," Dean drawled, coming to a halt at Kyle's side. Pointing to Sam, he introduced, "Kyle this is my brother, Sam."

"Hey," Sam greeted with a smile. He was rewarded with a return "Hey" along with a moment of brief, wary eye contact before the boy's enthralled attention returned to his brother.

"Which is your favorite, Prequel or Originals?" Kyle hazarded, watching Dean's every reaction.

"Originals. How about Star Trek? Next Generation or…" Dean parried back.

"Original. No one tops Captain Kirk," the boy cut in adamantly.  
"Give me five on that one," Dean proudly said, holding out his hand, letting Kyle's smaller hand slap into his palm. "Sam here liked the bald guy.." Dean lowly tattled, shaking his head in disbelief and shame, pleased that Sam, playing along, donned a look of shocked irritation, which the warmth in his eyes negated. "It's hard to believe sometimes that we're brothers," Dean drawled in mocking remorse, his sparkling eyes swinging from Sam's to Kyle's.

Giving Dean a slight nudge with his shoulder, Sam countered, "Sorry, Dean. You're stuck with me."

At the brothers' interaction, Kyle smile encompassed Sam as he started to look at the taller man in a new light, as less the villain and more the trustworthy sidekick to his hero.

"See what I have to put up with," Dean sighed before his eyes turned serious. "But you really do look good, Kyle."

"I feel pretty good too. I wanted to give you something.." Kyle began, turning to the nightstand and retrieving a small box.

"Hey, I don't need any thank you gifts, Kyle," Dean gently protested, as the boy held out the box to him.

"It's not really a thank you gift it's more …" Shooting an uncomfortable look from Dean to Sam and back to Dean, Kyle swallowed down his fear. "Well, I just wanted to give this to you…so you'd…you know, remember me."

Blindsided by the boy's desire to connect with him, to be remembered by him, Dean had to clear his suddenly thick throat before he could vow, "I won't forget you, Kyle."

"I really want you to have this. My grandfather gave it to me," Kyle persisted, still offering the box to Dean.

"No, really, Kyle. If it was from your grandfather…" Dean contested, raising his hands but the boy's unflappable words overrode his own.

"My Dad said I could give it to you and I want to, Dean." His eyes fleetingly skipping to Sam, Kyle again focused on Dean, knew that he couldn't say all he wanted to in the presence of Dean's brother but wanted to say something, to convey that he kept his promises too. "Dad and I talked last night…about a lot of things and it went OK, better than I ever thought it would."

Dean understood what the boy was saying, what he didn't want to spell out with Sam in the room. The pact they had made, Kyle was upholding it, was letting his father really get to know him. "That's good and I'm…" Dean wanted to let Kyle know he hadn't forgotten his own pledge but it was hard with Sam there, watching him, hanging on his every word. Settling on vagueness, Dean offered, "I'm trying to do my part too," feeling a burning need to look at Sam but didn't, couldn't.

Easily reading the pride for him in Dean's eyes, Kyle felt his desire to give the older man the gift burn even brighter in him. Looking down at the box in his hand, Kyle shyly revealed, "It's nothing much really. But it always meant something to me." Raising his eyes to meet Dean's, the boy said with more conviction, "I think it'll mean something to you. Please take it," he entreated, holding the box out to Dean again.

With measured care, Dean reached out and took the small box from the boy. He opened the lid slowly, revealing an engraved brass bookmarker. Reaching inside, Dean picked up the bookmarker and tilted it in his palm so the etched words were discernible against the polished metal.

'_Come to Me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.' –Matthew 11:28_

As Sam watched his brother open Kyle's gift, pride surged through him at the reverent way Dean withdrew the bookmarker from the box, as if the gift rivaled any his brother had ever received. So there was absolutely no forewarning for Dean's reaction. In shocked stupor, Sam witnessed all the blood drain from Dean's face, saw his brother's battle honed body stiffen as if against an unforeseen annihilating assault. "Dean?!" Sam called out in concern, in fear, stepping closer to Dean, his hand coiling around Dean's arm even as his shoulder touched his brother's. "Are you OK?" his eyes fastened onto his brother's pale profile, gutted by the grief-stricken look stealing across Dean's strong features.

"I'm sorry…it was a dumb thing to give you. You don't have to take it.." Kyle stammered, fighting tears of frustration and embarrassment.

At the boy's words, Dean shook his head and hoarsely said, "No." Raising his head, he met Kyle's fearful expression. "No, I ….I want to keep it."

"But it……." Kyle didn't know how to label the other man's response to his gift.

Sam had no such problem. "It hurts you," he breathed out, his voice cracking, his hold tightening on Dean's arm.

Dean's look settled back onto the bookmarker. Running his thumb reverently over the etched words, he nodded before meeting his brother's eyes. "Yeah, but in a good way, Sam." Turning to Kyle, Dean rallied himself to open up to the boy, to open up to Sam, to let someone know him, even some part of him that he had tucked away even from himself. Between the boy's fearful expression and Sam's anxious presence at his side, Dean found the strength to step free of his barriers.

"Kyle, my mom…she had a handkerchief with this verse on it. She …she was going to give it to me when I…" Dean broke off, looked down again at the engraved words on the bookmaker as he scrambled to not let his voice shatter, to not let his soul splinter apart. It had been so long ago, another lifetime ago, felt as if it were someone else, someone else's memories that he was recalling, someone else's mother who had sat on another boy's bed, an embroidered handkerchief in her hand.

Tears sprang to Sam's eyes, not for the mother that he had never really known but for his brother, for Dean's pain that always hurt Sam as if it were his own. Forgetting that Kyle even existed, Sam gave Dean's arm a reassuring squeeze, felt as if a spear pierced his heart when Dean's pain hued eyes met his.

"She never got the chance," Dean forced out the words, surprised that they came out merely a breath of air, barely any strength to them, any volume. By Sam's flinch, he knew they had reached his brother's ears, had sailed straight into Sam's ever vulnerable heart. Ashamed that he had hurt Sam, Dean turned to Kyle, smiled an emotional smile, "You've given me something I've been looking for Kyle. Thank you," and then Dean stepped forward and gently pulled the boy into a hug, felt the small arms tighten around him before he pulled back. "I won't forget you, kiddo. Now we've got to hit the road but I want your word that you'll take care of yourself."

"I will, Dean," Kyle promised. "And you take care of yourself too."

Nodding, Dean turned around and strode for the door, felt Sam at this back, emanating strength and concern and protection.

Exiting the room, Sam quickly gained Dean's side, shot his brother a worried look but let Dean take refuge in silence. No words were exchanged as they stepped into the elevator or walked out of the hospital doors. But as Sam made to step off the sidewalk to cross over to the parking lot where the Impala sat waiting, Dean's hand latched onto his arm and yanked him to the right, causing him to stumble a few steps before his gait again matched his brother's.

Finding himself walking along the sidewalk, his brother at his side, Sam could only study Dean's profile, was left trying to interpret his brother's slumped shoulders, the hands stuffed in his jeans' pocket, the far away look in the eyes that looked over the hospital's snow covered grounds but did not venture in his direction. He knew it was not his place to ask, to push, to demand something that was Dean's and Dean's alone; his memories, the facets of his relationship with their mother, _his_ mother, it was hallowed ground, guarded, protected, revered, and hidden, and buried and unmercifully painful.

"Mom kept the handkerchief in her Bible," Dean started, his voice rough and nearly taken away by the cool air, his eyes squinting against the bitter gale but not settling on Sam. "It was originally her mother's. She promised to give it to mom when…." Dean shook his head, bit his lip. He didn't like the territory he was treading into, it was foreign and painful and was leading him down a path he had sworn he would not go, could not go, not after what had happened to his mom.

"When what, Dean?" Sam gently asked, drawn into the tale as if his next breath counted on Dean's next words, feeling as if his brother's next breath was interwoven with the unfolding of the tale.

Taking in a bracing lung full of air, Dean slanted a quick look to Sam. "She said she'd give it to mom when mom needed faith the most." Snorted as if he thought his grandmother was a little buckets full of crazy herself. "Course that never happened either."

"Why?" Sam prompted, marveling at all he didn't know about his own family tree.

Meeting Sam's inquiring look, Dean revealed, "Mom's parents died in a car accident when she was twelve. That's why mom was raised by her aunt and uncle."

"I knew they died but I never knew how they died," Sam stated, without accusation.

Dean shrugged as if to say 'gone was gone' and looked again to the white horizon. "Mom…she said she didn't take their deaths very well, was sad, felt alone, was angry."

"She told you all of this? You were what three? Four?" Sam asked, surprised and almost disapproving that Mary had not sheltered Dean from such harsh truths.

"I asked her if she missed her parents, if she was sad they had gone. And she told me the truth," Dean quietly explained, turning back to face Sam. "She was packing away her parents things when she found the handkerchief and it…" He swallowed, cleared his throat. "She said she read the verse and she didn't feel alone anymore, understood that although bad things happened in life, God still loved her, that He would help her to be happy again, even though her parents were gone."

And Dean remembered the way his mother had smiled then, a smile that lit up the room, '_And you know what? God did it. I was happy again when I met your father, and then He blessed me with you and then with little Sammy. He kept His promise, Dean. He made things better when I didn't think they ever would be again.'_

Returning back to the present, Dean pulled the box from his coat pocket and held the bookmarker in his hand. Then he held out the bookmarker to Sam, watched as Sam carefully drew it from his palm unto his own, knew the verse's fitting words would strike into Sam's heart as effectively as they had in his own. "She told me that when I needed to have faith the most, she'd give the handkerchief to me so that I would know I wasn't alone, that, no matter how sad I was, things would get better." Sam's words at Roy LeGrange's tent rang through Dean's head. '_Maybe it's time for a little faith Dean._' Now it seemed their mother's memory was echoing that sentiment, that maybe God was whispering it from heaven in the sneaky way that only He could.

Sam's chest tightened as the verse unfolded. The words were as if they were drawn together just for Dean, for him. And Dean's broken, vanquished words came to him again, came to him as they had time and time again when he was unwary, vulnerable, or scared. "I'm tired, Sam. I'm tired of this job, this life, this weight on my shoulders, man. I'm tired of it."

'_Come to Me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.' _

If anyone was weary, was burdened, Dean was. If anyone deserved rest, had earned a respite against the harshness of life, was worthy of shelter, Sam knew it was his brother, above anyone else he had ever known. "Dean…" he said brokenly, looking up at his brother, a tear slipping down his cheek, finding Dean's eyes were swimming too.

"Yeah, I know," Dean, with a raw voice, agreed with Sam's unspoken statement. It was piercing them both right through the heart. Reverently accepting the bookmarker back from Sam, Dean deposited it back in its box and stowed it snuggly into his jacket pocket. Then he quietly said, "Let's hit the road, Sammy," and they began to walk to the car, side by side.

"I'm driving," Sam claimed, snatching the keys from Dean's bandaged hands.

"What? Why?" Dean objected, raising his eyebrows as Sam headed for the driver's side door.

"Cause I'm not comfortable with old mummy hands driving, that's why!" Sam joked before sinking into the driver's seat.

Mumbling another token protest, Dean climbed into the passenger seat and watched the landscape go by as Sam drove them out of town. "What is this town anyway? Are we in the Bible belt or what? Miracle central? I half expect to pass Michael Landon hitchhiking on our way out of town, doing his whole "highway to heaven" gig," Dean sallied, using humor to conceal the knot in his gut that the events of the past two days had tied, nice and tightly.

"If I see Charles Ingalls, I'm not stopping but if I see Roma Downey…" Sam quipped, tossing a smirk to Dean, "you're kicked to the back seat, dude."

"So that's the way it is, huh? Kick me to the curb for a hot angel chick?" Dean sulked, leaning back heavily into the Impala's passenger seat.

"Oh yeah, definitely," Sam confirmed, his smirk turning into a full blown smile at Dean's snort.

The town was in their rearview mirror for an hour when Sam spoke, his voice hesitant, uncertain, making him sound much younger than his twenty four years. "So mom…did she teach you how to pray? How to start I mean?" Sam didn't pool his eyes from the road, couldn't look to Dean, didn't want to see censure or sadness or something even more painful flicker in his brother's eyes.

It took Dean a minute to get his throat to work, for the words to come. "She ..ah…she said I could say …" Dean sat up straighter in the seat, chanced a glance at Sam, saw the white knuckled grip his brother had on the steering wheel, the way Sam's eyes were transfixed straight ahead. When he continued his words barely carried the distance to Sam, "She said I could start with '_Hey God it's Dean'_." Dean gave a small laugh. "She said God would already know it was me but she felt it was rude…you know, if you didn't introduce yourself, just like she taught me to do on the phone."

"Like you taught me to," Sam correlated, his tone soft, gentle and his eyes drawn to Dean, felt reassured, strengthened as he met Dean's tender green gaze.

"Yeah," Dean agreed, surprised and touched that Sam remembered that he had taught him that and not their father.

A moment laterSam tentatively called,_ "_ Dean," shooting a look to Dean, rewarded with his brother's full attention.

"Hmmm?"

"You know you asked…..wanted to know about …how it was…with you in the hospital…" Sam struggled to get the words out, to bravely revisit those terrifying hours when Dean was slipping away from him, was going where he couldn't follow. But Sam knew that whatever his admission would cost his pride, would exact on his heart, it would be a small price to pay.

"Sam, don't," Dean warned, recognizing the intensity in his brother's eyes, knew that this time Sam would tell the truth, would rip open his soul, would make himself vulnerable, for him, because he cared for him.

But Sam refused to be swayed. For once the truth would not hurt but heal, would not condemn, but save, would irrefutably proclaim that he loved Dean, needed him, not just as his protector but as his brother, as the other half of his soul. "I might have held your hand for awhile…" Sam shot Dean a look full of pain and embarrassment and love, "I might have blubbered…for a little while."

"Please tell me there was some hot nurse you wanted to impress with your sensitive side?! You know, show that you cared about your brother so you didn't come off as a jerk," Dean retorted, but his tone was too low, too unsteady to effectively conceal the fact that Sam's words had made his eyes tear up, had sent a pang through his heart.

Playing Dean's game, Sam snorted, "Dean, all your nurses could have been named Hildegard. They looked like those butchy masseuses from all those bad B movies you love."

"Great, thanks for that visual," Dean grumbled back, but there was love and gratitude in his eyes as they met Sam's. Suddenly they both smiled, real honest to goodness smiles. "You're such a girl, Sammy."

"Hey, you're the one that coddled me, not Dad," Sam accused teeth showing amid his wide smile.

"I didn't coddle you! I protected you!" Dean countered, the scowl doing nothing to diminish the happiness echoing off of his soul.

"Potato, Patato, Dean. You just have to deal with the end result," Sam drawled, dividing his attention from the road to his brother.

"I like the end result, Sammy," Dean honestly said, his look telling Sam just how proud he was of the man he had become.

"Yeah, well, you didn't turn out half bad yourself," Sam returned, his voice low, his own pride uncovered. Then a mischievous glint entered his eyes. "You're out there rescuing small children, hugging cops and district attorneys, making the world a better place, one snow storm at a time."

"Ah, shut up, Sam," Dean chuckled.

"No, I mean it, this can be your new PR package. I got the headline. " Raising his hand as if he was tracing the headline in the air, Sam announced, "Man wanted by FBI rescues boy, forsakes life of crime,"

Dean snapped, "How about this headline: Wanted Man surrenders to Authorities to escape from his Little Brother's sucky jokes."

"Nah, it's got no pizzazz to it, Dean," Sam sallied back, fully enjoying torturing his brother.

"You don't have any pizzazz," Dean parried.

Pointing a finger at Dean, Sam denied, "No you don't."

"No you don't," Dean insisted before throwing "Jerk," out across the interior of the car.

"Cop hugger," Sammy retaliated, laughter overtaking his words.

"Oooohhhh, that was a low one, Sammy," Dean drawled, shaking his head at the audacity of little brothers.

"I'm sorry," but Sam was smiling ear to ear.

"Yeah, you look it," Dean grumbled back, settled again in his seat but couldn't keep the content smile from lighting up his face as he looked out the side window.

A companionable silence fell between the brothers. So much was unsaid between them, yet so much was conveyed in their silence, in the very fact that they were together, in spite of the all they had been through. It was even more extraordinary to think they were irrevocably bound together only _because_ of all they had lost, all they had suffered, all they had endured, side by side. That good had come out of bad, that pain had given way to strength, that the vilest act of hatred had fostered the strongest ties of love, of brotherhood….that four simple words could lead them down a path that they were always destined to travel.

'_Hey God, its Dean…."_

'_Hey God, its Sam…"_

SNSNSNSNNSNSNSNSNNSNSNSNSNSN

The End

Please let me leave you with this thought:

We do not always seek God but He always seeks us, always loves us.

Romans 5:20:But where sin increased, grace increased all the more, so that, just as sin reigned in death, so also grace might reign through righteousness to bring eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord.

A trillion thank yous for every ounce of support offered to this story. I hope you know how much I appreciated every review, every person who read the story, every person who even _glanced_ at the story.

On a side note, I was struggling on which verse to use and I was praying about it and then, wham, I went to church and the pastor said Matthew 11:28!! TWICE!! I have to admit I got all choked up. God is so in tune to our needs, it's incredible, it's overwhelming and it's humbling all at the same time.

Alright, I'm officially stepping off of my pulpit.

Have an awesome day!  
Cheryl W.


End file.
